


Intermezzo: The Zeltron Wedding Blues—Or How Hondo Ohnaka Saved the Day and Gave the Bride Away

by B_Radley



Series: Rise and Fight Again [31]
Category: Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Caper Fic, Families of Choice, Father-Daughter Relationship, Hondo keeps his clothes on, Love, Multi, Not a damsel in distress story though, Others don’t, Rescue, Unconventional Families, Zeltron Wedding, Zeltrons and Corellians oh my
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 02:55:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 86,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22008826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Radley/pseuds/B_Radley
Summary: Yet another of Ahsoka Tano’s new found family and support system is missing. Lassa Rhayme, captain of the Blood Bone Order and an ally from the end of the Clone Wars, has disappeared after a vote-out by her crew. Ahsoka Tano, Meglann Florlin, and the remnants of her officers  are desperately trying to save her, even enlisting several less than scrupulous individuals in their cause—including her estranged father, Sorentin Rhayme and his partner in crime, Gral Kruvure, as well as certain former pirate captain and current legend in his own mind, Hondo Ohnaka.Bryne Covenant, Nola Vorserrie, and Dani Faygan, are looking for the missing daughter of the current Zeltron Head of State, a young woman last seen as a crewmember on theOpportunity,Lassa’s ship.Past and present will collide, as well as all of their different paths, as they find themselves fighting for several families, of choice, of marriage, and of blood.
Relationships: Ahsoka Tano/Original Character(s), Hondo Ohnaka/Original Character(s)
Series: Rise and Fight Again [31]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/487091
Comments: 32
Kudos: 2





	1. Prologue: Lost Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only the beginnings....

**Prologue: Corellia  
The First Year of the Great Separatist War  
7955 CRC**

Shyla Merricope takes a sip of her whisky as she contemplates the dawn. As she always does, she wonders if the course that she has charted will be the right one for Corellia. She grins wryly, hearing the gravelly voice of Draq’ Bel Iblis in her mind. _Keep the navel-gazing to a minimum, Shy,_ the Dragon-voice says. _Think about your actions for about a minute, then move on._

She shakes her head of the memories and sets the whisky down, picking up the datapad from the polished surface of the conference table. Before she activates it, she looks at her reflection in it, then shifts her gaze over to the ornate mirror above the fireplace. Her dark eyes stare back at her, locking on her face. The face of a still-young woman; she had just turned forty. A woman who had already seen a lifetime of experiences in the ten years since she had become the Diktat—the elected leader of this world and to a certain extent its four brother planets.

Every one of those experiences had received that internal scrutiny as she tried to pull the Five Brothers into the new realities of the Galaxy. A reality marked by the growing ambition and power of one man. Sheev Palpatine, the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic.

An ambition that had caused her, along with the Corellian Sector’s Senator, Garm Bel Iblis, to formulate a plan to keep Corellia from the growing darkness of the war, as well as Palpatine’s ambitions.

The _Contemplanys Hermi_. A codicil in the Republic Constitution that would allow Corellia to remain in the Republic, but not take part in any action that they believed unjust.

Such as a war between other systems of the Republic.

Shyla curses to herself, thinking that she has engaged in that same navel-gazing, past the time she should have. She takes another look at herself, grinning ruefully. It had taken her nearly all of her ten years in office to get to where she could move on quickly. She lifts her left hand and touches the tuft of gray in the front of the otherwise dark brown hair, a contrast with her pale skin. _Still a few bugs in her decision-making system_ , she thinks.

A cough from behind her brings her back to the here and now. She puts on her mask, one that tells any watcher that she is comfortable with her decision.

She does give a soft smile for the young woman standing there in traveling clothes. A pair of dark eyes meet hers with an even gaze, under pulled-back strawberry blonde hair. For a moment, Shyla sees the strawberry blonde hair pooled on a pillow, as her fingers move over the lightly freckled skin. She shoves the thought and its accompanying regret away, regret that she had taken that step with a staff member—an intern. Something she had avoided with another intern, a laughing young half-Zeltron.

At least until the young woman had graduated from the CorSec academy and was no longer under her direct supervision.

She notices a hint of impatience on the calm face of Delilah Sal, ex-CorSec Deputy Constable, no, _failed_ CorSec Deputy Constable, now a low-ranking staffer for the Diktat.

A product of that mistake. She hardens her look, allowing Delilah to speak.

“I’ve made contact with the Guildmaster,” she says. “They’re ready to move on Xerus,” she says. “They think that they can get the thing away from the Seps before anyone else can.”

Shyla nods. “Good,” she says. She walks over to Delilah and pulls her into a deep hug. “Thank you for your work, Del,” she says. “I know it was risky.” She kisses her on the forehead, then the cheek.

Delilah nods, then rests her head on Shyla’s chest. “It was a close run thing a couple of times. Dealing with the Hutts and that other party was hard.”

Shyla nods. “It might be just as dangerous if the Dragon finds out I went behind his back with this.”

As she places her nose in Delilah’s hair, continuing to hold her, she wonders how long it will take for Delilah to let slip to one of Draq’s people of this fact. Or to someone worse.

* * *

**The Present: The last day of the First Festival Month of 7963 CRC  
5:5 AFE (After the Formation of the Empire)**

He lifts his eyes from the carpeted floor of the ancient chamber, dropping his left hand from his forehead, the traditional sign of respect to the woman who stands before him. The Chalice of Omri—the symbol and protector of the _You-ka-Torin_ —the Land of Song in the beautiful tongue of his birth.

Alyysina Faygan—a name that few actually know her by, watches expectantly. Boman Torstan’ii, the resonance elected leader of Zeltros, the _Zoetarch_ , does a bit of expectant watching of his own.

Finally Alyys rolls her always-black eyes and motions towards a couch. As they sit, she reaches over and gives him a slight kiss. The greeting of old friends in their personal lives, but occasional adversaries in the public arena.

“Now that we’re finished with the ritual pissing contest, how are Sina and Kanyly doing?” she asks.

He looks away for a moment as he thinks of his prime-bond and their prospective bond—the namesake and niece of this powerful woman, now watching and waiting in a cloistered room not far from this one. Waiting to see if her bonding, a simple act of love, will have consequences for this beautiful world and the galaxy at large. If it will mean one less strong leader willing to take on the Empire, albeit slowly and deliberately. An action that might take decades.

He comes back to the presence of the Chalice, waiting somewhat patiently for his answer. He takes a deep breath, noticing the steel behind the obsidian staring at him. He fights the flush of his crimson skin, as well as his own eyes shifting to the _Modula_. One taken alone, the transition to the black that marks strong emotion, wouldn’t earn a remark. But coupled with the flush of skin, it might draw Alyys’s own anger, mimicking his.

Boman takes a deep breath, calming himself. “They’re as well as can be expected. Kanyly has buried herself in work in the Senate.” He smiles at the thought of his longtime bond, Kanylynaan na’ Torstan’ii. Once a fellow Bailiff-Acolyte, a member of the security forces of this peaceful world, she had stayed in the profession when he had moved to the political realm. He sees Alyys’s eyes soften a bit at the mention. She lifts her hand to his cheek.

“I know. Probably shouldn’t have asked about Sina. I see her more than you do, since the banns were posted. She’s champing at the bit to get back to her healing and medical practice.”

Her eyes harden again. “Have you gotten any closer to finding your lost child and the thing that she took?” she asks.

Boman sighs, knowing that this meeting hadn’t been called to discuss his loves. “We’ve gotten some new leads since we enlisted the aid of the Corellians.”

Alyys smiles. “I’m glad you finally took my advice,” she says, a hint of dryness in her voice. _More than a hint._

“I’m sure that they’ll be a great help,” he says, his voice dropping several degrees, “but I’m not sure that we should’ve trusted outsiders.” He smirks. “Just because you’ve opened your legs for one of their leaders.” There is no malice in his voice, as their people discuss acts of the body and heart with equal frankness.

She smiles. “Don’t be jealous Bo; it doesn’t become you.” She looks out of the window, towards the horizon. “I would trust Draq’ Bel Iblis with my life. I trust him with my most precious gift. Our daughter.”

He nods. “Yes, but Draq’ doesn’t seem to be as involved. He’s retired. His nephew seems to be making a lot of the decisions and is in charge.”

It is Alyys’s turn to smirk. “Well, you’ve taken him to your bed. I’ve even given him a test ride. I think he can handle whatever’s thrown at him.”

“Well, I’m not exactly basing my estimation of his discretion and judgement on how well he uses his _chah-dere_ ,” he says.

“It usually works as an indicator of character,” she say. Their shared laughter lightens the mood.

They both grow serious again. “You should’ve thought about this before you entrusted your rebellious child with one of our most sacred objects. Something that’s supposed to be kept near the Zoetarch, before any decisions or ceremonies take place involving the Zoetarchiate.

He looks to the low ceiling of her audience chamber. “Yeah. That’s what Kanyly told me.”

She shakes her head. “You really should listen to the women in your life, bud,” she chides gently.

He feels his eyes shift again, this time accompanied by slight moisture. She reaches up and tenderly wipes the tears away. Tears not for any ceremonial doo-dad, but for his missing child.

Without another word, he gets up, quickly bowing to her and spinning on his heels.

She sends a bit of her own powerful resonance to him—a resonance that could focus her world’s emotions to any threat.

But can it work on the sadness of a father with a missing child?

Alyysina Faygan reaches out and touches her comm. She closes her eyes, then speaks. “Iron, I think it’s time for you and your Elements to take a more active role in this.”

She smiles as she hears the acknowledgement.

* * *

Meglann lifts the glass to her lips, knowing that the old Togruta is watching her expectantly. She knows that the expectation that she drink the concoction, as some sort of rite of passage with Selda is most probably pure, unadulterated bullshit, spread by either Ahsoka Tano or by her partner in snark, Nola Vorserrie, but she doesn’t think she has anything to lose

As the orange _turu_ -grass moonshine flows into her mouth, she instantly regrets her willingness to play the game. It’s s a close run thing that the drink doesn’t immediately flow back out of her mouth onto the bar’s polished surface.

Selda watches her, his eye twinkling with suppressed laughter as she continues to down the liquor. In another five seconds, she slams the glass upside down on the bar. Selda grins. “You did a helluva lot better than Nola when she tried it, dear,” he says. “She made a beeline for the ‘fresher.”

“So can we get down to business, now?” Meglann asks. He touches her hand with his one good one and brings up another glass.

“Here, Meglann,” he says. “This’ll keep you from turning any more green than you already are.”

She looks at the glass skeptically, the sips it. The leaps and bounds of her stomach calm to only an occasional gurgle.

“So,” Selda says. “Loganer.”

“Yeah. Lovely individual. Such a sparkling personality. So much so that I nearly drew on him the first time I met him.”

“From what I understand, most people have that urge,” comes a voice from behind Meglann. She turns around, her eyebrows raising at the young woman who stands there. A pair of frank brown eyes gaze at her from a tan face. Meglann smiles at the flashes of light that glint from the right side of her lower lip, as well as on the right nostril. Meglann reaches up and touches the small ring that adorns her own right nostril. A ring that she had only recently taken to wearing again, after a month or so of hanging around pirates, without the strictures of Queen’s Regulations.

She returns the gaze evenly, including the glances up and down the woman’s body, clad in an exercise shirt and cargo pants. Her hand moves down to the right side of her leg, before moving back across her chest. Meglann glances down at her own right leg, where a very large blaster usually rests, at least on any other world that allows open carry of weapons.

After a moment, the woman extends her hand. Meglann takes it. Both women have firm grips, but neither feel the need to demonstrate their strength. “Cyn Eldar,” the woman says.

“Meglann,” she replies. She sees Selda’s eyeroll out of the corner of her eye. Cyn releases her hand and walks behind the bar. She picks up a bar towel and places it on her shoulder.

“Cyn is an absolute disaster as a bartender,” Selda says. Meglann laughs as Cyn blows him a kiss. “She has many other talents, though,” he finishes. “Talents that her Mandalorian family, as well as the Queen of Naboo recognize.”

Cyn shakes her head. “Not the Naboo, right now. Kinda on hiatus with them. They frown upon their Handmaidens freelancing. Until it suits their purpose.”

Meglann files that for later. “So, you’ve got some info on ol’ Delto?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Cyn replies, pouring two glasses of Keldabe prime rum and sliding one to Meglann. Meglann manages not to cough at this new taste; she realizes that her college years of cheap beer hadn’t prepared her well for the life of a spy and pirate. “He never came in here, but several months ago he was bragging all over town that he was going to score himself his own crew.” Cyn contemplates her glass. “Not too many people were taking him seriously. It takes a special kind of talent to wash out of Hondo Ohnaka’s crew,” she finishes.

“Yeah,” Meglann replies with her own smirk, “I’ve had the pleasure. He helped me with something else a few days ago, but I had to keep checking if my wallet was where I left it.”

Cyn nods. “Yeah. That sounds like Hondo. At least you don’t have to worry about him feeling your ass up while going for your wallet. I think he learned his lesson, hooking up with Aurra Sing for a bit.”

Meglann lets that slide, but Cyn sees her puzzled expression. “Ask your buddy Fulcrum about her. They tangled up a few times, back in the day,” she observes. “I think that useless Corellian-Mando that you hang out with might have some stories as well.”

Meglann raises her eyebrow. “Oh yeah,” Cyn says. “Had some laughs with both of them, at different times. Laughs and violence.”

She grows serious, allowing the wistful smile to fade. “Loganer kept harping on the fact that he had some info on an old caper from the Clone Wars—the beginning. Something involving the Corellians, Jabba, and a couple of other parties. Something that could score a cool million or so for some missing Seppie tech.”

Meglann digests this. Selda speaks up. “There might be a connection with Lassa,” he says quietly. “Something from before she was Captain.”

“So maybe him picking Lassa’s crew wasn’t random?” Meglann feels a very large presence move next to her. She smiles at the comforting bulk of San Adis, the gunner of that particular pirate crew. She squeezes his arm with affection, before reaching over and kissing the Tholothian’s companion.

Thyla Secura returns the kiss, her lekku twitching slightly, then smiles her thanks at the two glasses that are slid to her and Adis.

“I don’t know anything about this caper,” Adis says. “I don’t remember Lassa talking about anything like that.”

“It was before your time, love,” Thyla says. “Hell, it was almost before mine. Lassa was the Quartermaster for Mal Dolros. She said that they could’ve had a big score, as well as poking her finger in a Seppie named Lok Durd’s eye. Somebody she had a hankering to kill.”

“I do know that Loganer spent a great deal of time with a Bothan information broker named Krstsador,” Cyn says. “Scumbags seem to like to hang out with other scumbags.”

Selda smiles. “You might start with him. I wouldn’t mention Fulcrum’s name. Or Nola’s,” he says.

Cyn gives him a questioning look. “Fulcrum refused his offer to ‘take her away from all of this’, as long as she would crawl into bed or get on her knees for him, early in her career,” Selda replies. “She wound up breaking his organization wide open for a bit. He’s just now started to get it back close to where it was. He and his partner, the adopted son of one of his former rivals.”

Meglann doesn’t bite at the ‘former’ label. “And Nola?”

“She just kneecapped him awhile back,” he says. “Both knees.”

Cyn laughs. “I kinda like this Nola, already.”

Meglann shakes her head. “You’d get over it, after about five minutes of her personality. I’ll start with Krtsador and see what I can get from under his rock.”

“Maybe I should go with you, Junior,” Adis says. Meglann sees Thyla punch his arm.

“Never mind,” he says. “You can handle yourself.”

Meglann reaches over and kisses his cheek. “Yeah, I can, Guns,” she says, “but I appreciate you looking out for me.”

As she leaves, Adis looks at Thyla. Thyla nods. “She could use some backup. Just far enough away to let her spread her wings, but can back any play she makes.”

Cyn reaches behind the bar and pulls up a dark-red colored Mando _buy’ce_. “I got her. I know my way around his little nest.” She grins. “She’s kinda cute. Might buy her dinner after she gets through.”

Adis rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Great. Another one who thinks with her nethers.”

Thyla laughs and kisses him. “You should try it, bud. Might do you some good.”

“I ain’t even sure they still work,” he says ruefully.

* * *

Lassa Rhayme wakes up slowly. She realizes that she is on the deck of the brig, rather than the pallet she’d managed to make with her one blanket. She rolls over to the pallet, wrapping herself in the blanket. She wonders idly how the hell Delto Loganer had been smart enough to figure out how to lower the temperature of the brig enough to make a Pantoran uncomfortable in the cold.

She shakes her head, wincing at the fresh pain as her head moves. _Probably not any of his doing. Broken ribs and some of the other hurts are probably playing havoc with my internal temperature_ , she thinks. She manages to roll her single open eye. _Getting a bit morbid in your old age, Rhayme. Since when were you smart enough to diagnose your own ills?_

The door to the cell opens. The aforementioned idiot walks in, a smirk on his leathery face. He reaches down and touches her face, stroking her cheek. She tries to recoil from his touch, but realizes that she doesn’t want to show any more weakness. She leans into his touch, manages to move her lips to his palm.

 _I’m really going to need a long dip in bacta after this. Not to mention a very lengthy bath_. After a moment Loganer apparently notices how close his thumb is to her teeth. Other experiences have shown him that he might not want to keep touching her.

 _He can be taught_ , she thinks with silent laughter.

Lassa begins the silent ritual of tuning him out as he begins his daily dose of rants and threats.

_I’m bad. You’ll soon be in my bed, where’s that thingy that Dolros was looking for, blah, blah, blah._

_Wait, what?_

She reluctantly thinks about turning that part of her brain that could concentrate on Loganer’s blather at the mention of Mal Dolros, the man who had taken her in and made her a part of the Blood Bone Order. She smiles in spite of her pain, in spite of her current place in the universe. Just as she always does when thinking of him. The smile fades when she thinks of his death at the end of a rope. She is once again grateful for Thyla punching her into unconsciousness when she had threatened to charge in to rescue him. An action that would’ve most probably resulted in all of her small landing party kicking at the end of companion ropes.

Grateful for saving them, but also grateful that Thyla had spared her from watching Mal die. All while taking it upon herself to make sure that Mal could see her own face—a friendly face— as he died.

“What did you say?” she manages, her mouth dry.

“Oh, so you are in there, dear,” he replies. “I said, that I’ve just come into confirmation that I’ve got something that will lead me to that little doodad that you and Dolros spent so much time looking for back in the day. The vaunted Blood Bone Order’s greatest failure. What got him voted out and you voted in.”

“You don’t actually know what the fuck you’re talking about, Delto, my lad, on that front,” she manages.

“Well, I’ve had one of your old crewmembers—one of your officers enlighten me. She said that everyone suspected that you had fucked up the exchange so that you could get the Captaincy.”

“Oh, so you’ve been listening to pillow talk from my traitorous former Master-at-Arms,” she manages. “The one that I made the MAA after that whole thing.”

He reaches down and caresses her face again. “Only because you refused my kind offer of a less, shall we say, _painful_ spot in the Captain’s bed.”

“Sorry, bud. Not really into dried up Weequay as a turn on,” she replies. Her head snaps back from the blow that he gives her. She smiles through the fresh blood on her lips. “You’d’ve thought you might have learned that already,” she says, more calmly than her heart feels.

“Oh, by the way. I’ve the agent of someone interested in your useless carcass on the hook. You might be able to end your days as something other than an adornment on a chain lying against Jabba. Or at least as the entertainment of someone more pleasant than a Hutt.

“So you’d better tell me where the hell it was that you actually came close to project Xerus. So that we can find that little doodad.” He starts to leave.

Sohlwey, her former master-at-arms, walks in through the door. She smirks at Lassa, then reaches up and kisses Loganer. “It’s working,” she says. A small floating device follows her in, moving to the ceiling.

“So, was it easy betraying us, En?” Lassa asks. “Gri looked up to you—like a mother. Was it easy marooning him in the Dune Sea?”

“Easier than you think, Lassa, dear,” she replies. “I never wanted to be saddled with that Nikto brat.”

Loganer continues to grin at her. “I thought I’d give you a modicum of comfort, Rhayme, since you’ve been complaining about the accommodations.” He nods at Solhwey, who touches a button on her wrist.

Lassa stifles a scream as her tortured ribs react to being yanked off of the deck. She feels her arms lifted above her as she floats to the ceiling, bathed in a white light. She realizes that the floating device had separated into two, the second part now on the deck as she is suspended between the two parts.

When she is alone again, she thinks of the result of that muffed exchange in her past. That vote-out, one that had Dolros staying on as the gunner of the _Opportunity_. To continue to give his protégée’ advice, from a comfortable retirement. All engineered by him.

She smiles through the pain of the stretching of her arms. _Yep. You got it all wrong, Delto. You got a lot of things wrong._

As usual.

* * *

**Alderaan**

Bryne Covenant puts his fork down on the plate. He catches the eye of the cook, a woman a few years older than he in the kitchen, grins and nods approvingly. He moves his gaze around the rest of the light, airy diner. There is no sign of the fire that had been set in the kitchen several months ago. A fire that had started the owner on a new life—with some adversity at first, but now firmly on her path. A path as a future fighter in whatever form a certain movement takes in the next few years.

A movement fostered and grown by his breakfast companion. He smiles at Ahsoka Tano, her montrals and lekku hidden in her customary scarf-hood. He reaches over and takes her free hand; the other is engaged in shoveling the remains of a meat filled omelette in her mouth. She smirks at him around her fork, knowing that he is noting her eating habits. Habits slightly improved from the time when she was teenager, needing a huge amount of calories to keep her growing energy levels up.

Both of them look around the diner with something like pride. An emotion maybe a little bit more proprietary on her part, as she is a silent part-owner of the establishment. The diner, known as Her Diner from time immemorial, even when the owner had been a grumpy Nikto cook, had grown. Where it had been only half of an old landspeeder garage before, Meglann and her new manager—the retired chef of the Royal House of Alderaan, had used the insurance money, as well as a hefty settlement strongarmed from certain criminal elements, and bought out the vacant flower shop, expanding the restaurant. Bryne nods with satisfaction as he sees the diner filled with university students and professionals. It probably helped that the Queen of Alderaan and her small family made it a point to come in once a week for family night, in one of the new back rooms.

He turns as he sees the caf pot hovering over his cup. He looks up into the smiling face of the server. He nods, appreciating someone who asks first.

“So, my grandfather told me it was your birthday today,” she says. Ahsoka smirks at his expression. The server sees it as well. “Don’t worry. Meglann says that we don’t sing here for birthdays.” She grins, then takes in Ahsoka as well. Bryne notices her look away. “She said that in some families, it’s grounds for instant divorce.”

“She’s very wise,” Bryne says dryly. He holds out his hand. She grasps it, smiling wider. He gazes into her open friendly features, her dark eyes taking his in as well. She shifts her gaze to Ahsoka, reaching up and pushing her hand through the long waves of her dark brown hair. The ring in her nostril catches the light as she appraises her.

“I’m Mirandre,” she says, her eyes on Ahsoka.

Ahsoka gives her a hard look, nods briefly, then turns away to contemplate the bright morning sun through the former bay door windows. Bryne sees the young woman’s hurt expression.

“I’m Bryne,” he says, turning her attention back to him. “My friend here, who’s for some reason being kind of an asshole, is Jana,” he finishes. Ahsoka turns back and stares at him, her blue eyes spitting fire. “Could I have some of that cake over there? I know it’s breakfast, but if you can’t have dessert on your birthday, when can you have it?”

Her warm smile returns to her face, as she turns back to the bar.

Bryne turns back to Ahsoka, his eyes narrowing. “What the hell, Runt? She was being friendly. Why’d you treat her like that? You’ve never been jealous in your life—at least with me.”

She says nothing, but contemplates her caf. He is hit with the realization that he’s missed the mark entirely.

“It’s because of Meglann, right? You afraid that if you’re even decent to her as a person, she’ll suddenly want to quit her safe life here and go join the Navy?”

He sees that he has hit home as she recoils, her face twisting with brief pain. She says nothing.

Bryne takes a deep breath and forges ahead. “You didn’t draw Meglann into the life. She jumped in with both feet.” He looks down. “Maybe I showed her that she couldn’t be protected, by failing her when the Antols burned this place and killed Gort.”

Both of them are drawn to the picture above the passthrough window, the face of a green Nikto staring back at them, his eyes rolling at the camera. They had both only recently learned that he had been the owner that Meglann had bought the diner from; he’d been content to watch from the kitchen.

They’d also learned that he’d left everything, including the purchase price, to Meglann.

After a moment, Ahsoka turns her gaze back to him. Her eyes are considerably warmer when she does. She touches his hand, then grasps it. “You aren’t to blame, Bait,” she says. “I should probably never have come here in the first place.”

“Yeah, let’s try to out-martyr each other,” he replies. She tries to draw her hand away in rising anger, but he doesn’t let her. He continues to gaze at her, his eyes drinking in every visible centimeter of her face. “I thought that Nola was the only one of us who feared to love, to get close to someone because she didn’t want to grieve them.”

“That’s not fair, Bait,” she says. “I—” She closes her mouth.

“It’s why we have this little weird-ass mythological bond. It’s not just so that I don’t have to get married and propagate the Covenant’s line. It’s so that we can support each other.” He looks down. “It’s so that the four of us can support you,” he says.

Her mouth twitches for a moment. Finally she nods. “I thought it was called the Links of the _Covenant_ Chain. Not the ‘Fulcrum’ chain.”

He reaches over the table and kisses the end of her nose, not caring who sees. “It goes both ways.” He smirks. “Sorta like all of us,” he finishes.

She giggles, then grows serious. “Speaking of Nola, why did she send Tamsin and the ship away? I thought they were her backup.”

“Because she’s stubborn as the goddamned day is long.” He looks down. “Plus I need them to pick Shyla up and take her there. Nola might have to be her protection for awhile, until I can figure something else out. They’ll get there before me.”

“So you’re headed there?” she asks.

“Yeah. Last time we were there, Nola nearly wound up in Black Sun’s clutches. I think Xizor might still be there.”

“Uhh, how I heard it, you’re the one that came close to taking a bubble bath with him,” she says with a Smirk.

“You heard wrong. Nola exaggerates,” he replies. “Besides, I would’ve rocked his world.”

“That’s what Nola said.” Their laughter rises together.

“I think that I’ll head on to Bothawui Proper, since Dani is taking over looking for Danalaan,” she says. She looks away, her lekku stripes showing several different shades of blue. “Maybe a handsome Corellian-Mandalorian can drop me there in the _Beskad_ ,” she says shyly, naming the old Republic shuttle.

“I’ll see if I can find you one anywhere,” comes the expected reply. He looks down. “It’ll be good to spend a few more hours with you,” he says. He fights the sadness that has his heart in a vise.

As he collects the cake and pays the tab, he notices that Ahsoka eyes Mirandre with a soft look. He knows that she is remembering the first time she had met Meglann, the warmth and admiration from the young woman.

He sees her take a deep breath as she smiles at a different young woman; a young woman who had gazed at her with the same admiration, if not for all of the same reasons that Meglann had.

 _Some of them, though_ , he thinks. The raw strength and power that emanates from every fiber of her.

_I know the feeling, Mirandre._


	2. Two: Let me not to the marriage of true minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The many faces of family and love.

**The Past: Coruscant**

Delilah Sal looks out over the power station, concentrating on the discharges that purple the air around her. She begins to wonder if this is a trap; there are so many places and ways that she could meet her end.

She wonders if she will have outlived her usefulness to the beings that control her. She isn’t sure when she will ever repay the debt that her mother, Mailyn Blackthorn had incurred to the Hutt.

Delilah isn’t even sure what the debt is, as she and the Hag, as her mother is known, aren’t close. Ever since she had been erased and sent to her father’s mother, to live in the shadow of her cousin, Thrackan Sal-Solo, raised by her father’s sister, Tiion.

Raised without any hint of enthusiasm for a bastard—even one from a woman married into an Elder Family—a status that the Solos desperately wanted to regain.

Delilah starts as she hears a noise. Her hand moves to the blaster under her coat, but immediately shifts away. Any move towards a weapon would probably bring instant death from the individual that she is meeting.

“Good move, darling,” she hears in a flat voice. She slowly turns and looks at the woman standing behind her on the catwalk. She steels herself and looks down. She wonders if it will be quick, or whether the fall will kill her first, or the energy tendrils arcing over the station will burn her to a pile of Corellian ash.

The woman is suddenly beside her, without any perception that she had moved. She stares into her teardrop-shaped eyes—eyes that gaze at her with a flat darkness. Flat until a tiny bit of humor escapes from the pits.

She closes her eyes as the woman’s hand reaches up and touches her cheek in an almost tender gesture.

“Relax, girl,” she says. “You’ve got a long way before you work off your mother’s debt to Jabba. I wouldn’t dream of ending you, unless you cross me or Jabba. Something you’ve shown no inclination to do.” The flat line of the woman’s mouth quirks upward, giving her an almost tender expression, when coupled with the humorous glint in her eyes.

Almost.

“I will say this, Delilah,” she says. “You have an honorable streak in you that you don’t seem to have gotten from anyone that whelped or begot you. You hate what you’re doing, but you’ll do it. It’s almost refreshing.”

Delilah remains quiet, not wishing to say anything to anger the killer—she had seen the cold anger directed at another.

The subject of that anger had not survived.

Jabba’s minion drops her hand. “What’ve you got for me?” she asks, her voice surprisingly quiet.

“It’s in motion. The Corellian smugglers have made contact with a pirate crew in the Outer Rim. They’ll be doing the actual taking of the prize,” she replies.

“Does Merricope suspect you?”

Delilah closes her eyes, seeing Shyla’s face lying next to her, from the vantage point of lying in the Diktat’s arms. “No. I don’t think so. I think she might think that I’ll betray her to Draq’ Bel Iblis. She doesn’t want him to know about this operation.”

Ming Lardai smiles. “I can see why. This could blow up in her face, what with their so-called neutrality.” She shakes her head. “Never mind. Jabba doesn’t care about Corellian politics, nor Separatist ones. He wants the leverage of this device, as well as what it might do to his competitors if he possessed the means—”

She stops, then looks at Delilah, then looks at her own waist. For an instant, Delilah wonders if she is contemplating using either the small blaster, or the large knife on her. In spite of her fear—a fear that turns her insides to icy water, Delilah focuses on the ornate curved blade of the Tatooine flensing knife.

A part of her is amazed that she can remember what the knife is called and where it’s from; she had excelled at weapons identification in her CorSec academy curriculum. As always when she thinks of that time, her heart sinks with the memory of her failure.

_Pity you couldn’t excel at the ethics_ , the voice of Dani Faygan, her Academy classmate says in her head.

She shakes the thought away, then focuses on the fact that she may be free of the memories in another minute or two.

Ming smiles at her. “No dear. Just thinking of possibilities for Jabba. I think that there might be someone else—an ally of Jabba’s who might be interested. He has a particular interest in embarrassing your Diktat. Do you have a location for where the pirating might take place?”

“No,” Delilah replies, “not exactly. There are two distinct possibilities. Ardalen keeps getting mentioned. Azdriel as well. There’s another one, but it’s not as firm in the evidence.”

Ming nods and then reaches up, with both hands this time, and brings Delilah’s forehead to hers. A brief kiss and she is gone.

Delilah’s skin tingles with the tenderness of the gesture. She knows that Lardai could’ve killed her with out compunction, even at the end of the tenderness.

Such is the debt that she is paying for someone else.

* * *

Her eyes open slowly, focusing on the bland surface of the bunk above her. She wants to close her eyes again, to fall back asleep like she had at home on a lazy weekend morning. She shakes her head and sighs, knowing that the life of an apprentice gunner’s mate on a pirate ship wouldn’t allow her to. Even though the memory is tinged with anger, she recalls being woken up by her father on a school day. The smell of his caf and his aftershave mingling, an instant before the merciless tickling on her ribs started.

Danalaan Torstan curses under her breath, then grins, as she recalls the gunner turfing her and her mattress onto the deck on a ‘school day’. The smile fades as she wonders why the hell she had left home—why she had run away when the memory of her father was so warm.

_Probably because the days that she was woken by him or her mother were so few and far between._ Between his political career and the months away as Caretaker of the Chalice of Omri by her mother, she’d usually been wakened by a caretaker droid or one of her older siblings.

She swings her bare feet down, wincing at the cold of the deck. She stretches her arms to their full extent, stifling the groan at her protesting muscles. She realizes that she needn’t have bothered as she is alone in the small berthing compartment.

The hatch opens and her partner, Rik Duel walks in, that damnable easy grin painting on his lightly bearded face. He reaches down and tweaks her nose, pulling her from the bed in an easy embrace. She rests her head on his chest. She smiles at the warmth of his embrace. They had not gone any further than this; she had offered, but he had always mumbled _maybe later_. A part of her was charmed by his chivalry, but another part of her—the lower arm of the Zeltron soul—the body, wanted to climb on him and have her way with him.

He rolls his eyes as he spots her blue-green eyes changing to the black with the thought of what she would do. She manages to keep her resonance tuned down, so that the whole ship of scum doesn’t come running with their tongues hanging out. She had found a couple of them that weren’t too objectionable to satisfy the needs of that part of her soul.

Danalaan reaches up and kisses him; he allows the contact, then breaks away. She turns and strips the old exercise shirt off and pulls on her workshirt. She knows that he eyes her body with at least some interest as she drops her shorts and pulls up the trousers from their place at the foot of the bed. She sighs as she gets a whiff of herself. It would be another day before her turn for a shower came up. Her eyes narrow as she remembers the brief time when Lassa was still in command. Nothing had been rationed then, not showers, nor food. She had managed to get the several thousand calories that her species needed. She runs her hands through her reddish-purple hair, then ties it in a ponytail.

She can see that Rik is almost vibrating with impatience. “What?” she asks.

“I met somebody that was involved in the crew’s search for Project Xerus,” he says. “I learned about him from a source when I was in the Gaol on Corellia.”

She waits patiently. “His name’s Chihdo. He’s a Rodian who’s been off and on the crew for years. He came back with Loganer. He’s interested in helping us.”

“Marvelous,” she replies dryly.

His thick brows knit together. “What, Dana?” he asks.

She breathes out at the diminutive of her name. “I’ve told you not to call me that,” she says. “I haven’t chosen that form of my name. You don’t get to call me that.” She shakes her head at his apparent uncomprehending look. “I don’t know if we need another damned pirate in this thing. I came with you because I wanted to see the stars.” She looks down. “The wanderlust was strong. I’ve given up my family and my home because you said you had a way to make some easy money.”

“I don’t—” he starts. He falls quiet, then nods. “I think he might’ve been playing a couple of sides, or at least a couple of different parts, during that whole thing. I think we might need him with his knowledge of what happened, if we’re going to get through this,” he says quietly.

She stares at him for a good long minute. Finally she nods. “Okay. But if he tries to betray us, we’re done. I’m going to see if I can get into Lassa’s cell. I’ll see if I can get the information before she gives into Loganer.”

As he leaves to meet their new partner, Danalaan stares at the hatch as it closes behind him. She hadn’t told him why she hadn’t chosen the diminutive of her name.

Zeltrons must find an indicator of their path—either through a deed performed,  
or through the example of someone they admire.

She’d found neither.

Danalaan lifts up her mattress and pulls out a small bag. She lifts the gold object from it and pulls it to its full length. Her eyes track over the golden cord and its central knot. Three examples of the hardened spirit-resin of her world; small jewels of an amber-like substance nestled together.

Adornments with each their own meanings. Symbols of love, of welcome, and family. Red, green, and blue.

It is the small silvered thread woven through the rope-like gold that draws her attention. It glows with a slight, white light. A thread made up of a substance that can absorb the resonances of an entire people, then translate those millions of emotions into decisions.

It isn’t that property that had drawn her, and by extension Duel, to the story of the _Torinsdattir_.

The substance isn’t glowing because of an upcoming vote. It glows because of its proximity to more of the substance.

A substance that for others could bring untold wealth, as well as either chaos or calm to the galaxy.

It might bring a ticket home for her and the ‘ _dattir_.

* * *

Nola Vorserrie downs the rest of her drink, looking around at the few other patrons of the small rooftop cafe. She sighs with the sense of having been here before, waiting on another possible scumbag for information. She looks down at herself with a rueful grin, as she reflects on the one difference from her last time on Raxus Secundus. _Not wearing a little black thing split down to my belly button and up to my hip_ , she thinks, looking at the cargo trousers and the pullover.

She wonders idly when Bryne or Ahsoka will arrive, seeing how she had sent Tamsin and her crew to go to Nar Shaddaa in an attempt to provide a dead woman with backup. Nola will, at some time in the very near future, probably be asked to provide some of her Handmaiden training to watch over Shyla Merricope; she’s proven herself able to look after people important to either of her worlds.

She accepts another glass of mineral water from the server droid, under the watchful eye of the headwaiter. At some point, she’ll need to order food to keep from getting kicked out of the establishment. Especially after the last time that she’d been here. He’d apparently been working here when a collection of various thugs had shown up, all because of her apparent interest in another thug, a thug who had held the fate of a young woman in his slimy hands.

A young woman dear to her and several others, a young woman now probably sitting in a bar on Bothawui Proper, trying to unravel the other part of this puzzle. She smiles. A few weeks ago, she, as well as the others had been wondering if they were on the right path or not.

Nola is pretty sure that question had been answered, as she thinks of the others and their various parts of this little search.

She sits up as a distinctive warmth intrudes into her body, somewhat centered on her middle. She looks around, expecting for an instant of analyzing the sensation to see someone with crimson skin walking in.

Her teeth grind as the sensation moves to another part. A distinctive smell in her nostrils. She sees several large figures shooing the other patrons out. Large figures with reptilian skins and topknots, along with the chemical pheromones that are assaulting her senses and her body. She reaches behind and grasps the butt of her Handmaiden’s blaster, as she remembers the last time she had experienced this. She remembers the pain in her head as she had used nearly-forgotten techniques taught to her by her loving Zeltron foster-sister. Techniques designed to combat chemical pheromones such as these.

She pulls her blaster out and sits it on the table, her hand still on it. The Falleen cadre stare at her. She realizes that while she can feel the pheromones, they don’t seem to be suggesting anything other than a mild warmth.

The door opens and another Falleen walks in. This example has an air of indisputable command and almost royal presence.

Prince Xizor, a Vigo of Black Sun, stares at her with an appraising look. A look that shift to an almost warm smile.

“Hello, your Grace,” he says. “I think that I liked your outfit last time a bit better.” He gestures towards the blaster. “It didn’t come with such accessories.”

“Oh, yes it did, your Highness,” she says. “I just didn’t have to show you mine that time.”

He sniffs impatiently. “I’m not here to teach you that you probably can’t truly resist me,” he says. He holds up his hands with palms out. “As much fun as that would be. I’ve never met a human who could resist my charms.”

“Then what are you here for?” she asks.

“I’m here to settle a debt that I owe someone. A debt that includes more information on that which you seek.” He looks around, as if noticing the surroundings for the first time. “But, I think that we should have this conversation in a place more private. Perhaps you will join me for an early dinner in my hotel suite.”

Nola stares at him. He smiles. “You’ll be safe there, my dear,” he says smoothly. The person to whom I owe the debt will be there to guarantee your safety.” He gives her a hooded look. “Although your guarantor has indicated that she might join me for a bath before dinner.” He steps aside.

Nola’s eyes spit fire as Shyla Merricope, the aforementioned ‘dead’ woman walks in. She looks at Xizor with the air of someone who knows something.

“Hello, Nola,” she says. “I told you I would come through for you.”

Nola remains silent, trying to gather her anger. Anger at someone who was taking so many risks in her new role. A role of intermediary to a Hutt gang, in hopes of turning the gang to their cause.

“Hello, Shyla. I guess I’ll have to join you in that bath. There seems to be no other way to keep you from killing yourself.”

As they leave, she glances at the waiter. Her eyes widen slightly at the now ill-fitting clothes, the clothes of one with much more weight than the new owner of the clothing.

Her eyes track upwards, to a pair of familiar, warm, green eyes; eyes with tiny flecks of gold in them that you have to look for, but only if you know that they’re present.

_I guess there’ll be a fourth for the bubble bath,_ she thinks idly.

* * *

Dani Faygan takes a sip of her Why-to cocktail and idly takes a look at her surroundings. She patiently waits for the Senator of her birthworld to finish talking with the Senator from Rodia. She wasn’t sure if the Senatorial lounge on Coruscant was the best place to talk about anything with an shred of secrecy, but the mass of Senators, lobbyists, lackeys, and lovers could mask their conversation enough, along with more electronic means of preventing eavesdropping. She touches the bangle on her wrist, nesting among others of its kind.

Kanylnaan na’Torstan’ii finally disengages from her colleague and wanders back to the table. She reaches down and gives Dani a kiss of greeting, then sits next to her in the booth. She brings her own face close to Dani’s. To anyone else watching, to anyone that knows their people, the closeness wouldn’t be out of place. Dani squares around and give the older woman a closer look.

She notes the dark circles under Kanyly’s green eyes. She lifts her hand and brushes a long golden strand of hair away from the Senator’s face. She smiles ruefully as her eyes track down Kanyly’s tall, muscular body, clad in what passes for conservative Zeltron business attire—a very loose definition as she sees the expanse of exposed crimson skin. She shakes her head, wondering how in the hell that the Fayga drew the lot that made them generally shorter than her tall, willowy people, with she as the shortest of them all of them.

_Can’t say it’s the human influence_ , she thinks, as she sees her giant of a father looking down at her in her memories, his blue eyes sparkling with pride.

She feels Kanyly touching her cheek gently. She draws herself away from her reverie.

“Explosives come in small packages, Daaineran,” Kanyly says.

_Damned resonance_ , Dani thinks. “That’s what Bryne has told me. Usually a lot slower,” she replies with a laugh.

“Much slower, if I remember,” Kanyly says, matching her laughter. She gives Dani a hooded look. “He does a few things slower.”

Dani rolls her eyes, wondering how a Zeltron’s suggestive humor plays in the Senate.

“How is he?” Kanyly asks, her eyes and tone growing serious. “He wasn’t looking so good, the last time I saw him.”

“He’s fine,” Dani replies. “He’s bounced back well.” She doesn’t elaborate about what it had taken for him to ‘bounce back’. She knows that like her, Shaak Ti’s loss will always be present for him, even though they both received some closure on Felucia. She changes the subject, drawing the discussion back to why she had come to Coruscant. “How’re you and Bo?” she asks.

Kanyly takes a deep breath, then contemplates her own drink for a while. “We’re here,” she finally says. “Boman is worried about Sina, how any delay might affect her.”

Dani brings her eyebrows together. Something in her own analysis of the resonance is not gelling with what she is saying. She takes her own deep breath, then expels it.

“Is this really about Sina? Is it really about the Parchment requiring the entire family—especially the youngest to take part in the bonding?” she asks bluntly.

Kanyly smiles. “You’re very perceptive, Dani,” she says in her lightly accented voice. “I should’ve known the daughter of the Chalice of Omri would be able to tell.”

_She should know_ , Dani thinks, _having spent years as the Caretaker and Chief Priestess for my mother_. She doesn’t wait for Kanyly to tell her. “What, then?” she asks.

There is a deep silence for a moment; one that surrounds them even in the tumult of a thousand voices. Finally Kanyly opens her mouth.

“You know that Danalaan has struggled to find her path, right?” she asks.

Dani nods. “Yeah. I remember getting a couple of bulletins for running away when I was with CorSec,” she replies. “I don’t know if that in itself is a warning sign.” She grins sheepishly. “I made a couple of ‘great escapes’ of my own. Made it back to the Land all the way from Naboo,” she adds with a hint of pride.

Kanyly matches her grin. “Yeah. I know. You forget that I was a cop once, too. Took a couple of those trips to Naboo to take you back.” Her grin fades. “I know. There are other signs. She hasn’t chosen her diminutive.”

Dani feels her eyebrows raise at that. Usually the choice is made by the time the resonance manifests itself; at the first _Modula_ —the transition of the eyes. An event or person has inspired the naming convention.

“Yeah,” Kanyly says. “Other things. She managed to get into trouble a lot. Petty thievery—hell, she even learned how to pick locks, the Chalice knows where.”

Dani narrows her eyes. “This is leading to something, isn’t it? Something more serious?” she asks.

“Boman thought some responsibility would help her after she graduated primary school. He made her the Guardian of the Song’s Knot.”

“The Song’s Knot?” Dani asks with some curiosity, as well as a slight amount of dread.

“It’s a symbol of the Zoetarchiate. It has a mineral on it that reflects and absorbs the resonances of our people in such a way that it helps translate the wishes of the Land at election time. For both offices and referendums.”

Dani breathes out. “Why is it important to the bonding?”

“Added responsibility when you’re Zoetarch. Anything you do requires a note of ceremony. Even bonding.”

“You haven’t told anyone it’s missing, right? Dani asks dryly.

“Only your mother. She was very pissed.” Kanyly says. “She entrusted it to Bo as a symbol of his office. She didn’t have to.” She looks down. “They always said that when you bear a child in your later years, there’s always some extra challenge. I had Danalaan in my fifties.”

Dani nods. Kanyly still only looks as if she’s in her thirties, the norm among their long-lived people. “I think that’s a load of superstitious poodoo, Kanyly,” Dani says. “I know you gave her a loving home.”

“Yeah, but we were too busy running the world.” Dani sees the tears form. “We weren’t always there.

Dani shakes her head. “Can you give me everything you know?” she asks gently, lifting her hand to the older woman’s cheek.

Kanyly leans into the touch. “I can. The Knot isn’t very valuable, but the compound in it can be. It’s very rare and can be used in finding certain more valuable minerals.”

She takes a deep breath. “There’s been an ISB agent poking around. Seems she is looking for the Corellian that Danalaan has fallen in with. Probably the one that taught her lockpicking and such.”

As she leaves the lounge, a datachip in her pocket, Dani shakes her head again.

_There’s always a Corellian involved,_ she thinks. _Well, my girl, you’ve now gotten a bunch of Corellians involved._

* * *

Sorentin Rhayme looks once, then twice before stepping from the ramp of the old _Consular_. Gral Kruvure follows him, his golden eyes locked on the ramp behind him. As always, checking his back, making sure the two ex-cops don’t come out of whatever hole they had been in.

No one had said explicitly that they weren’t prisoners, but the largest of the two, M’Faru, had implied that dire things might happen if they left the ship.

Both of them had quivered in their boots, since they were both similar in size and shape to the ex-smashball player.

Gral motions towards a particular path after they exit the hangar bay. Sorentin follows, but his mind is on something other than following directions. His mind is on his daughter and her predicament. He feels one chamber of his heart twist as he sees her angry child’s face in his mind, as he leaves her and her mother.

Her mother—perhaps the best of all of those that he had married—patient, kind, but with a fire beneath the calm lake that even today warmed not just his loins, but all of the chambers of his heart. Something that very few people had ever done.

Sorentin remembers another unfamiliar emotion when thinking of them both.

Abject fear. Fear that one of his enemies—particularly those ruthless political leaders that he had managed to piss off, would harm Lassa and Tendra, her mother.

He feels a punch to his chest from his companion. “Hey, Rhayme. How about getting your head out of your ass? This could be hazardous to our health, if you’re not at what passes for a hundred percent for you,” Gral finishes.

He nods absently as they walk through an ornate door. Several gunsels watch them, their weapons drawn. Gral stares back at them, as they walk into an ornate chamber, filled with artwork.

Or at least knockoffs of artwork.

An Ithorian walks up to them, holding his hand out. Gral looks at the appendage with a calm disdain.

A voice comes from the raised dais behind the Ithorian. Fey’lan Krtsador sits with his arms crossed on the ornate chair in the middle of the dais. “What the hell are you two assholes doing here? I told you never to darken my doorstep again,” he says, his glossy fur rippling with anger.

“Calm yourself, Krtsador,” Sorentin replies. “Just want some information on someone. Someone who you might already be dealing with.”

“What makes you think that I would betray a client to you two? I don’t think either of you have two credits to rub together,” Krtsador says.

“Because it could be dangerous if you play with me, Fey,” Sorentin replies, calming his anger and impatience. “I’m not in the mood for bullshit.”

“Well, you certainly put enough of it out yourself, Rhayme,” Krtsador says. He motions to the Ithorian. “Take them out and shoot them,” he says.

The Ithorian majordomo lifts a hand towards Rhayme. He screams through his gill slits, the multiple orifices giving the scream an otherworldly quality. He drops to his knees as Gral releases the arm—an arm now twisted out of its shoulder socket.

Sorentin stares at Krtsador, ignoring the fingers on blaster triggers. In a flash—a flash that no one would believe possible, given their bulk, both of them stand on Krtsador’s dais next to him. Sorentin is gratified by the look of fear in the Bothan’s dark eyes. He brings his hand to the information broker’s muzzle, touching it gently, if a bit insistently. “You might want to rethink that, son,” he says almost gently. “I’ve got something more precious than money on the line here. You don’t want me on your bad side.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Gral look at him with amazement at the words and the tone.

Krtsador nods after a moment. “Who?” he asks.

“Loganer.”

Krtsador rolls his eyes. “Oh, him. Not exactly someone I’d be too concerned with. He’s working on something for me. He thinks he’s in control, that he has the Idiot’s Array.”

“What’s his game?” Gral asks, speaking for the first time.

“Something from the war.” He looks at Sorentin. “Something I thought you were connected with, with the Corellians.”

“Xerus,” Sorentin says. “I might’ve been involved a bit,” he says.

Krtsador’s bushy brows rise. “Oh, really? Just a bit?” He nods thoughtfully. “I’d be willing to undercut Loganer with the two of you. You both have a spotty track record, but might at least be a tiny bit smarter than one of Hondo’s castoffs.”

“Gee, thanks,” Sorentin says dryly.

“Come back in a couple of hours. I’ll have more information for you. There might be a current Imperial connection to this. I have to tread carefully.”

As they leave the audience chamber, Gral asks out of the corner of his mouth, “You trust him?”

“Of course not, bud,” Sorentin replies. “But we might have something to offer Loganer, if we’re going to get my daughter back, safe and sound.”

Neither of them see the aging Weequay gazing at them through thick goggles as they leave the building.

Hondo Ohnaka’s eyes track them as they walk away.


	3. Three: Admit impediments. Love is not love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble with a capital _Trill_.

The old man’s eyes narrow as he reads the text. He sighs and sits back in his chair, looking out at the sunrise on Drall, over the hills of the small landholding. Draq’ Bel Iblis stands up, lifting his caf cup to finish the last sip. As he starts to walk to the kitchen for a refill, he steps on a small child’s toy. Fortunately, he doesn’t break it as it’s made of some foam-like substance. He starts to curse, but stops and smiles warmly at the thought of the owner of the toy. A little girl who maintains her happiness and laughter, in spite of the burdens placed on her shoulders in the last year or so. 

A little girl, now sleeping with her mother in their all too short visits to Ala Gainsefield-Blackthorn’s place of recovery. Recovery from injuries and illness inflicted by her purported great-uncle, Count Dooku in the Clone Wars. 

Draq’ pours himself another caf as he walks out on the back porch of the small farmhouse. A farmhouse equipped with the latest in technology. A farmhouse that Ala couldn’t leave for more than a few hours’ time as she continues the treatments that both save her life, as well as drain her energy. His heart twists at the incredible strength that Ala shows, so that she can see her daughter grow up, at least every week, with sometimes longer visits. He also feels himself fill with pride at his daughter’s love for the little girl, as Dani navigates her new role as the caretaker of the Elector-Presumptive. He realizes how his life is full as he hears their joyous laughter in his memory, a laughter shared with Jamelyn’s mother on their weekly visits. 

He shakes his head, then lifts the datapad again, activating its comm function. He paints a warm smile on his somewhat fearsome visage as a holo of his younger sister phases into being.

“Hey, old man,” she says, her own warm smile tripping his heart. He raises an eyebrow as he notices her attire, an off the shoulder nightgown. It rises further as the pickup lands on the broad back of a sleeping male, as she exits the bedroom. He shakes his head with a grin.

“Hey, your Grace,” he replies. “Whaddaya have for an old man? Besides grief and snark.”

“Nothing much, Reptile,” she replies. “Just more of the same. Oh, you may have a new future brother-in-law.”

“Great. What’s this, the fourth gigolo this year?”

“Fifth. What can I say? I’m not picky and have a short attention span.” 

He rolls his eyes at Dainet Weaselton, the de facto intelligence service of Alderaan, and daughter of Levon Bel Iblis in his wide-ranging travels. 

He sees her features grow serious. “Speaking of gigolos, I’ve information on our favorite ex-Grace of Panteer.”

He grins. “Now our favorite ex-CEO of Blastech,” he muses. His eyes fall at the cost of that particular maneuver. “The Imperials weren’t able to make any charges against him for his involvement in Rasteen’s murder and Shyla’s, even though the holos were compelling.” He doesn’t mention that much of that evidence had been manufactured by a couple of galaxy-class slicers. Nor does he mention the fact that Shyla’s death had been completely manufactured, as well. 

“Yeah. He’s bounced back pretty well,” Dainet says. “Imperial Moff of the Fondor sector’s not a bad gig.”

“Yeah, but at least he’s off of Corellia. Now we just need to worry about Thomree and any of his creatures, “ he says, naming the former elected Pretat, now the appointed Imperial viceroy for Corellia. “Feel bad for Fondor, though, although they know what they were getting from when he served as their Senator.”

His eyes narrow at her expression. “What?”

She takes a deep breath. “Dorith has been showing interest in the operations of a _certain_ Imperial Star Destroyer. Specifically their deployment schedule.

He looks at her quizzically after the emphasis on the word. Realization dawns as he connects the dots. 

“The _Resurgent_?” he asks. He takes a deep breath, releases it. “The one that we just happened to send a young woman to to work her XO?” _A young woman who had once been the target of Dorith Panteer’s ire for refusing to marry him, so that he could further his grievance against the ruling house of Alderaan?_ he thinks, but doesn’t add. “Does this have something to do with Nola?” he finishes. 

“I don’t think so. The _Resurgent’s_ been reassigned to his sector fleet. What’s odd is the fact that she’s been deployed outside of the sector,” Dainet says. 

“Any idea for what?” he asks. 

“Well, she’s been seconded to the Advanced Weapons Research division of ISB. Under Noar Zan Arbor’s direction. They both seem to be looking for someone from the Clone Wars for a new project.”

He shakes his head. “That’s—disturbing,” he muses. 

“Yeah. He’s also been looking very closely at the Dao-Aspeff concern,” she adds.

Draq’ closes his eyes for a moment. “Yosta Aspeff is a friend. I also know that there’s a connection to a young woman from Alderaan, through her father.”

“Meglann,” Dainet says. 

“Yeah. Bail and Breha keep an eye on her, as do some other interested parties.”

“Apparently he’s paying particular interest in Yelena Dao, the new YardMistress of the Dao-Aspeff Yards.”

He narrows his eyes. “She’s just been nominated for the Small Council. Some say she might be the Chair, soon.” He smiles, the expression softening his features. “Yet another one of these talented young women in the galaxy. So what’s his interest? Hopefully it ain’t marriage, like it was with Nola. He’s so obsessed with his ‘seed’.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah. He’s very full of the value of that seed. Almost as much he is of the delivery vehicle for that seed.”

Draq’ rolls his eyes at her expression. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know,” he says. 

“To answer your question, Dragon,” she replies, changing the subject, “no, it doesn’t seem to be that. He seems to be looking into her parentage. Specifically her human mother.”

Draq’ is silent for a moment. “Do we have a name? I thought that she died as a result of an accident—an accident that wasn’t actually an accident. Some dynastic thing.”

“We don’t have a name. The records have been wiped,” Dainet says. Draq’ narrows his blue eyes again. “Yeah,” she says. “Me too. It smacks of somebody having to run. To hide.”

 _Don’t have any experience with that_ , he thinks dryly. He shoves the memory of a crimson face looking at him with snark and love, while holding a tiny crimson bundle with large purple eyes to her breast.

“Where’s the _Resurgent_ headed?”

“Raxus Secundus,” she replies. 

Draq’ exhales. “Nola’s there,” he breathes out. 

Dainet nods. “So is Yelena. She’s meeting with some potential clients.”

“So what is this thing that Jenna Zan Arbor’s daughter is involved in?” he asks, circling back around.

“Something called Project Starsweep,” Dainet replies, looking down at her own datapad.

He stands up, his face going pale. 

“What?” Dainet asks, her own face reacting to his expression.

“Nothing. It may be nothing, baby sister.” He smiles. “Love you, but I’ve got to go.”

“Love you, too, big brother,” she replies.

As her image fades, his mind locks on that word—more directly on another word in an ancient language.

One that translates as ‘Sweeper of Stars’. An ancient legend of a powerful titan. 

_Xerus._

He opens his comm again, typing in a code from memory, even though it hasn’t been used in years.

The comm goes to messaging. “Okay, what the hell are you playing at? he asks before clicking off.

* * *

Nola watches as Shyla Merricope lowers herself into the ornate marble tub next to her. The tub is nearly big enough to hold Xizor’s entire retinue; she is glad that some kind of chaos near his hotel had distracted the Prince, so that he had refrained from joining them. 

At least for the moment. So far, he had kept to his word, controlling the pheromones—or at least keeping them to a dull roar, where she hadn’t felt threatened. She notices that Shyla is now watching her, her dark eyes focused on Nola’s. 

“Dani’s fine,” Nola says quietly. “I’m sure she misses you, but she’s okay.”

She sees Shyla’s body relax, if only a bit. The ex-Diktat closes her eyes. “It’s for the better,” she whispers. 

Nola grits her teeth. “Really, Shyla? Who’s it better for? Corellia? Dani?” Her eyes flash fire. “Or you?”

Shyla’s own eyes stare at her with rising anger. “You’ve got a lot of room to talk, Nola.” she says, “You haven’t exactly got a great track record when it comes to your friends and being honest.” Shyla looks away with regret, as soon as she says it. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Nola shoves her own regret into its tiny compartment in her mind. “It’s okay. But the real problem is going to be protecting you.” She smirks. “Your little private squad of thugs will only be as loyal as much as you pay them. “

Shyla nods. “Yeah. They’re actually Geddan’s,” she says, naming her Hutt contact. “It helps that the Empire thinks that Dorith Panteer murdered me,” she says. 

Nola purses her lips as she remembers. “Yeah. Didn’t exactly work out the way we thought that it would. He got a goddamned promotion out of it.”

“Yeah, but he’s out of Corellia’s hair,” Shyla replies. She reaches out and touches Nola’s cheek. “What about you, Nola? You’re not exactly exhibiting safe and cautious behaviors.” She lifts her other hand from the water and waves it over the tub. “I don’t know how I feel about you being willing to jump in a tub with a fucking criminal.”

“Yeah, well. Just because you aren’t jumping in the tub with a Hutt, doesn’t exactly give you the right to question my choices of how I use my body.”

“Nola, Xizor isn’t exactly your everyday thug. He could chew you up and spit you out. Bryne told me that even those techniques you learned from Dani nearly caused a stroke. He’s just too powerful—”

Nola places her own hand over Shyla’s. “Shyla, I’ve sworn several oaths that I’ll do what’s necessary to protect those I swore the oath to. Including dying, if I need to. I’m prepared for that. Fucking a Falleen is small beer.” She grins at the shocked expression. “I _am_ the foster-sister of a Zeltron.”

Shyla’s expression calms, but she remains quiet for a moment. “You don’t have anything to prove to anyone, Nola. Especially Dani.”

“Neither do you, Shy,” Nola replies quickly. She touches Shyla’s forehead with hers. “I may be your minder for awhile, until we can figure something out.” She holds up her hand to stifle the protests. “You’ll get a say in who protects you. But Draq’ insists.”

Nola stops at several loud voices in the hall, followed by even louder thumps. She rolls her eyes and grins. “Besides. I’m counting on someone to blunder in and ‘rescue’ me. He’s done it before.”

To punctuate her words, the wooden door bursts inward. Bryne Covenant slides in, managing to keep his footing on the marble floor. He slams his blaster into the high rise holster on his hip, as his eyes focus on the two women and his surroundings. Both women look him up and down. Nola’s look softens at the torn business suit, then at the blackening eye and bleeding lip. She involuntarily giggles at his widened eyes. 

A larger figure walks in calmly behind Covenant. Nola starts to rise from the tub, but settles as she sees the expression on Xizor’s face. An expression that probably passes for good humor on Xizor’s homeworlds. 

He stops at Bryne, gives him an appraising glance, then places his hand on his shoulder. “You didn’t have to break my soldiers and my furnishings, your Eminence, just to join us in the bath.” He smiles, an expression still with a hint of malice inherent in his species. “You’ve always had an open invitation to my tub.” At that, he turns and walks towards the tub, shedding his robe as he goes. 

Nola tries to concentrate on Bryne’s shocked face as Xizor lowers himself into the tub across from them. “Dinner may be a bit delayed, as someone decided to disrupt my hotel’s operations.” He looks at Shyla. “You may need some new soldiers, as well, your Excellency.” 

He turns to Nola, looking up and down her form. “You are safe, your Grace, from me. Guarantee of safe passage, especially from family, is sacrosanct.” He smiles wryly. “I may have a few words with my Uncle Malaky about handing out those damned things out so freely.”

All three of them turn towards Bryne. He rolls his eyes, muttering under his breath. He pulls his jacket off, then starts to kick off his boots.

As he slides into the tub, Xizor gives him a long look, then turns back towards the two women. “We can discuss my involvement in Project Xerus when dinner is finally served. We should just relax and enjoy the bath.”

Nola stifles her laughter as she makes out some of the words that Bryne mutters to her as he pulls in close. 

“The things I do for Corellia.”

* * *

Jaten Gorlute walks into the audience chamber, his eyes locked on the woman seated in the center of the room. As he passes by a large mirror, he checks himself. The dark gray uniform—rarely worn these days is pin-perfect. He allows his gray eyes to shift back to Alyysina Faygan. 

He stops and inclines his head. After a second, a warm smile splits her face as she rises and closes the distance reaching out with both of her hands to take his. She pulls him into a tight embrace, then reaches up to kiss him. 

“Hello, Iron,” she says. She reaches up and ruffles his auburn hair, a mischievous grin on her beautiful face. She motions him to sit next to her on the small couch.

“Milady Chalice,” he replies. 

She strikes his arm gently. “Oh, come on, brat. We’ve both known each other too long for that.”

After a moment, he smiles and nods. “I know, Alyys. But this uniform seems to bring out the stiff spine in me. Comes from only wearing it when I feel like I’m in deep shit.”

She rolls her always-black eyes. “I think you’d’ve known if I was pissed, Acolyte,” she says, leaving off the rank portion of his title. Alyysina grows serious. “I’m assuming that your first mission went well. Assisting Dani Faygan and her cohort on Felucia?” she asks. 

He nods quickly, smiling at the impersonal mention of a beloved daughter. “Yes. Dani was very appreciative. I think that the Elementals performed well.”

Jaten’s mind goes back to the bright, fecund world; of some of the things that he and his new team of, well, _chaos-bringers_ , might be the most appropriate term, had seen there. He closes his eyes as a young Togruta leaps with preternatural skill through the air. He remembers another Togruta warrior with the same skill and abilities, from a time before the war. 

Thoughts of Shaak Ti, as they always do, brings his mind to her fellow Jedi who had accompanied her to Zeltros, a slightly younger human. He feels something other than nostalgia as his mind’s eye sees Obi-Wan Kenobi’s blue eyes focused on his as he gently thrust inside of him. 

He opens his eyes, realizing that Alyys, as she always does, allows him to take his trip down memory lane. He grins sheepishly as he feels her resonance connecting with his—her breathing increasing at the sensations that he remembers. He shakes his head to clear the image of Kenobi’s pale skin. 

“You want me to find Kanyly’s daughter, don’t you?” he asks, his gaze focusing on her. 

She purses her lips. “I know. It’s not exactly a sanctioned use of the Elements,” she says. “I’m really not supposed to get involved in Boman Torstan’ii’s screw-ups.”

He narrows his eyes. “I’m not sure that I’d classify this as a ‘screw-up’. The Zoetarch has the right to appoint any Keeper of the Song’s Knot that he desires.” He gives a brief smile. “Even a wayward daughter.”

Alyys matches his smile. “I know. I just wish that he hadn’t.” Jaten’s eyes widen as he sees the tears forming in her eyes. 

“You’re remembering when Danalaan was born, aren’t you?” he asks gently. He reaches up and brushes the tears away, then places his hand on her cheek.

She turns and kisses his palm. Neither of them remark on the physical affection between them—the norm even during serious business meetings on this world. He grins. _Sometimes it goes much further than this._

“Yeah,” he replies. “Very eventful time. The capture of a dangerous murderer—probably the most violent in our history. A good relationship with the Jedi built.” His smile broadens. “The ascension of a new Chalice.”

She shakes her head. He knows that she thinks of her predecessor, Lanadea Stroyan.

“Some personal milestones as well,” she says. “The fact that your sister Lyndia was able to come out of the shell of her affliction, to become an expert on mind-healing and the connection between the the Force and our gifts.” She reaches over and places her hand on his chest. “The growth of a future Acolyte-Undersheriff for Special Purposes. Someone who realized that the potential that everyone else saw was there, for himself.”

He feels his own eyes prickle at her words. He changes the subject. “I’ll keep our participation to the minimum. Just in case the carrion-birds that are circling the Zoetarch and his family get wind.” 

“I appreciate it, Jaten-love,” she says. “It’s my understanding that one of your human members is already in place?”

He grins. “Yes. Ash. She’s on the information world. Once we found out some of the Corellians are there.”

She joins in a smile at the thought of the young Alderaani woman who now falls into that category—of her growth. A young woman leading the search for the other part of this mystery. “Dani is looking into Danalaan’s disappearance with ISB.” 

He starts to rise. She puts her hand on his thigh. He sits. “Work with them, Jaten,” she says firmly. “You know Dani. You were the male who trained her.” She looks away. “The Corellians can be quite tenacious when you give them a problem. All of them.” She looks distant for a moment, her own memories playing over her face. “Work with them,” she repeats.

* * *

Chihdo curses as the spanner slips from his hand. The engineer, yet another Weequay who had come aboard with Loganer that Chihdo hadn’t even bothered learn his name, stares at him balefully. Chihdo returns his stare and intentionally refuses to pick up the spanner. 

The engineer turns away and exits the maintenance space where he had been standing over Chihdo’s repair of the auxiliary systems monitor. Chihdo waits a couple of beats before sighing and picking up the spanner. 

_Not exactly the finest hour for a skilled thief of the Tetsu Clan_ , he thinks. _Thanks, Navik the Red for making it hazardous to my health to be a part of that clan._

The hatch opens and his new partner, Rik Duel saunters in. He isn’t quite sure what the Corellian’s job is on the _Opportunity._

“Hello, partner,” he says, giving that infuriating grin that seems to be genetic to most Corellian males. 

Chihdo grunts, then returns to his work. Duel doesn’t take the hint, but sits down next to him. “Dana’s all in,” he says smoothly. 

Chihdo turns and looks at him, trying to suppress the twitching of his small crest. He shakes his head, fairly certain that Duel doesn’t recognize the Rodian crest language. Chihdo smiles inwardly, knowing that particular crest twitch translates as ‘bullshit’ on most other worlds. 

He decides to call him on it. “Oh yeah? Then how come I had a beautiful young Zeltron in my grill, demanding to know what my qualifications were for the job.”

Rik grimaces, then rolls his eyes. “Do you blame her? You sold it to me that you knew one of the many parties that were part of this whole thing. That you were on the ship during that time.”

“I never said that I was part of the original caper on the crew. I worked with one party. One that might have some interest in what’s happening to the Captain. I wasn’t on the ship when it happened. I was on there later, as part of the gunner’s party.”

Duel’s eyes narrow. “That’s not what you told me. It’s also not what my source in the Gaol told me.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t listen to jailhouse gossip and base your planning on that,” Chihdo replies. “Plus, that’s exactly what I told you. I think you were ready to grasp anything. I told you that I was in on the planning for another part of this thing. That is until the Pantoran asshole decided to dump me for an ex-partner—one that he was ready to kill when we met.” He stares at Duel. “Plus, I know you were involved as well. You were the Guildmaster’s errand boy.”

Rik is silent for a moment. Chihdo can see the wheels turning. He grins to himself again. Danalaan, as she had insisted on calling herself, rather than what Duel had, had been suspicious, but had seen what his value was to the operation when he’d mentioned his knowledge, as well as who his partners were. 

Other than the Pantoran bruiser. He tunes Duel’s prattle out as he sees the dark purple eyes and crimson skin of the Pantoran’s sponsor. The memory brings him forward in time, to when another Zeltron with purple eyes—these more laughing than calculating—had been a member of the _Opportunity’s_ gun crew. A Zeltron who hung around with another Corellian and his young Wookiee sidekick. If the rumors had been true, the Corellian and Wookiee had been Jedi, the Zeltron a Corellian cop.

Chihdo starts to listen again, but is wary, based on his experiences with people other than his own. Especially Corellians and Zeltrons.

Trouble with a capital _Trill._

* * *

Nola Vorserrie closes the top of her backpack, securing it with her thumbprint on the locking mechanism. She looks at the two remaining items on the bed, then smiles softly. She lifts up her usual Handmaiden blaster and secures it in the holster at the back of her belt. Nola shakes her head at the teenager’s homage to a beloved older foster-sister and her carry-style, albeit with an opposite strong hand. She wonders if she’d made a mistake in not bringing the heavier S-5 blaster with her, with its attached ascension gun. She shakes the thought away and picks up the second item.

She pulls the small punch dagger from its sheathe with her left hand and holds it up. She glances in the mirror and rolls her eyes at the pose. She grins sheepishly, then takes a second look. She sees a very tall young woman, her dark hair now cropped rather than in its usual bob. She lifts her right hand and moves an errant strand back over her forehead. She sees her dark eyes grow slightly troubled as she thinks back to the time spent at Xizor’s hotel—the light dinner, not necessarily the time in the tub. Her grin grows into a smirk at her sojourn in Dani’s techniques in espionage, but then concentrates on what they had learned from Xizor on Project Xerus’s origins in the Separatist War.

“I received some information in the first year of the war from, shall we say, a _colleague_ in Count Dooku’s circle,” Xizor says. Nola realized that the criminal boss was desultorily stroking Bryne Covenant’s arm. She focused on his intent expression as he listened. 

“Durd,” Bryne said quietly. He reached over and took Nola’s hand in his under the table. She had managed to keep her own expression even, forcing the memories of her captivity under the Separatist scientist in the last year of the war behind her concentration on the matter at hand. 

Xizor lifted his hand from Bryne’s arm and moved it to Nola’s cheek. She didn’t recoil from his touch, as she marveled at the tenderness of the touch, as well as in his blue eyes. “Yes,” he finally said, pausing for a moment. “Even then, he tried to feather his own nest; he tried to find other buyers for his little projects.”

“What did you do?” Shyla asked, as she checked her comm. Nola narrowed her eyes, wondering what new scheme was attracting her attention. “I didn’t know you were involved when I was thinking about acquiring the tech.”

“I decided that it wasn’t worth the risk of Dooku’s wrath,” he replied. “I was only a sub-Vigo at that time; the leadership council was trying to get closer to him and his Separatists.” He smiled. “I decided to farm it out to another colleague.”

“Who?” Nola asked bluntly. 

“My dear, just because we’ve shared a tub, that doesn’t mean I’m ready to reveal all of my secrets,” he said archly. “I will only say that whatever he was offering was centered in the Azdriel system.”

Nola and Bryne looked at one another, their eyebrows raised. They both turn their gaze to Shyla. Her expression was as mystified as theirs.

“That’s not the information that I got,” she said.

“Nevertheless, that’s where the development was happening,” he replied. 

Shyla breathed out, then rose from the table. “I have to go. I need to check on something.”

Later, as they stood outside of the hotel, Bryne and Nola look at the sunset. “You okay, No-no?” he asked gently. 

“Yeah, babe,” she replied, hoping her expressive face hides her darker thoughts. “Just trying to figure this whole thing out. I’m wondering what the hell Shyla knows about this. What the hell else are we going to find during her tenure?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. He pulled her into his arms, resting his head against her shoulder. She grinned and patted him on his head from her greater height. He rolled his eyes then kissed her. “Let’s get out of here. Meet me at the _Beskad_ ,” he said. 

“What about Shyla?” she asked. 

“She’s got her own ship. She’s Tamsin’s problem,” he said. He closed his eyes. “She’ll be okay. Ahsoka and I are working on a more permanent solution for her security.” His lips lingered on hers. “Maybe some minding, as well.”

Nola shakes her head at the memories and hefts her pack. As she heads down the street from her lodging, she wonders if that ‘temporary solution’ will involve her residing for a time on Nar Shaddaa. 

As she turns the corner, the fine hairs on her neck stand up. As she turns, she is hit from behind and shoved to the nearest wall. She realizes that no one else is on the street—a main thoroughfare. She shoves back with her left elbow, connecting with hard tissue, but not bone. She hears a grunt in a feminine voice. 

Nola reaches down for her blaster, but feels her arm seized in an iron grip. As her hand is twisted behind her, her skin slides over bare skin—a bare, muscular arm. She starts to punch backwards with her left arm, but fails to move very far as her shoulder is wedged against the stone of the wall by a more compact, but powerful body. 

She grunts herself as she senses cold steel moving upwards, then touching the skin of her neck. She shoves backward, keeping the knife blade from her throat.

For the moment, at least as her forehead is shoved by the hand holding the knife into the wall. She feels blood running down from her head as stars flash in her vision. 

Nola feels herself weakening as the knife moves forward. 

She realizes that her attacker’s mouth is near her ear as an accented voice cuts into her consciousness. “I bring you the greetings of Jabba the Hutt,” she says. 

“You should’ve married his friend.”


	4. Which alters when it alteration finds,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hondo once again believes his own press releases. Heart to heart with a stubborn ex-President. Conversations with a Dragon. Dance with a thug. A different dance with more thugs.

Hondo Ohnaka watches as the Mirialan remains seated. He shakes his head. _The disrespect of the great Hondo Ohnaka—the scourge of the Outer Rim_. He shakes his head a fraction. _You don’t have to keep it up in your mind, Hondo_ , he thinks.

He allows himself a brief wry grin before painting the broad smile on his face. _If I don’t, who will buy what I’m selling?_

“Ahh, son of Locan. It’s good to see you! How’s the father?” He puts his hand over his mouth. “Oops! I wasn’t supposed to mention that. I forgot that you betrayed him to his rival.” He nods at the anger playing over the Mirialan’s yellow-green face, the downward pointing arrows under his eyes twitching.

“What do you want, Ohnaka? What scraps are you coming for, since you lost your little gang?” Locanson asks. His dark eyes narrow. “And I didn’t just betray the old bastard. I slit his throat.”

“Yes, yes. I’ve heard various versions of that little action. The bottom line is that you work for Krtsador, now. You’re just a lackey in the whole information brokering business,” Hondo finishes, his tone harder than his usual banter of the last few years. His insides twist as the nostalgia builds for the greatness of the Ohnaka gang at its peak. He shakes the vision of the multiple, saucer-shaped vessels that he had once commanded. 

With the tanks. _Oh, the tanks._

_Now I don’t even have the damned Kowalkian monkey-lizard._

“You’re wasting my time, Ohnaka,” Locanson growls. 

“Ahh, yes. Your time. I see you are very busy. Very busy indeed!’ Hondo replies, nodding at the information-broker’s hand playing over the bare back of the young human female sitting at his feet. The tall young woman, her skin as dark as Hondo’s heart, gazes at him with something like impudence. 

He manages to keep the surprise off of his face as he realizes that she isn’t checking out his manly form, but is looking at those places that his weapons are concealed. He files that fact away for later use.

“I have some information that you might be interested in. It might actually bring you to something like your adopted father’s prominence, rather than taking the scraps from Krtsador’s table,” he says. 

Locanson is quiet for a moment. Idly, Hondo wonders what his true name is, rather than one derived from the Bothan who had found him. 

“I’m listening,” Locanson finally says. 

“It seems like your business partner is looking to cut you out of a very lucrative deal. One that he’s working with a certain Pantoran. It’s my understanding that you get first refusal of any deal, no?”

He smiles slightly as he sees the anger rising again. Once again, his eyes fall on the woman, whose eyes are looking at him with interest.

“What is it?”

Hondo stifles his laughter as his mind’s eye sees Locanson as one of the little fishes on Corellia that he had watched with fascination as the tiny hook had lifted it from the sea, only a few weeks ago.

_Okay, Meglann, my girl. I’ve done my part_ , he thinks. As he thinks of the teenaged naval officer, he sees another teenager staring at him over a laser sword in his past, her blue eyes skeptical.

He wonders whether he’ll be able to betray Meglann, just as he has Ahsoka in the past. 

_That always worked out so well for me_ , he thinks ruefully.

He comes back to the present. “Let me tell you about a little something called Project Xerus,” he says to Locanson.

* * *

Bryne Covenant is hyper-aware of his surroundings as he moves towards the _Laughing Beskad_ , the old Republic war-surplus shuttle where his life had once begun anew. He shakes the welling memories away, memories of a mischievous smile under a broken nose and dark eyes.

As he moves towards the ship, he wrestles with several problems at once—mainly, at this moment—with the need to find Shyla Merricope a new protector. He grins as he remembers the relative ease with which he had dismantled her brute squad on loan from Geddan the Hutt. _You just can’t get good help anymore_ , flashes across his mind. His expression grows darker as he thinks of another reason that Shyla wouldn’t want Geddan’s thugs as her principle means of protection. The fact that anyone of them would, for the right price, cut her throat or place a blaster bolt between her sculpted eyebrows. 

He grits his teeth at her resistance to his suggestions, as they were toweling off from Xizor’s tub. The Falleen had already left to make sure that dinner was prepared after Bryne’s _impact_ on the hotel’s operations in his drive to get to Nola after she had left the rooftop bistro. 

“I don’t want a minder, Bryne,” she said. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I know these scum. I can use them.”

He had caught Nola’s eye as Shyla had turned around so that Nola could towel her back off. He had kept his temper in check; knowing that most of his loved ones had the same streak of stubbornness in their own ways.

_Well, except maybe Meglann_ , he thinks with a grin, _when she’s asleep._

“Shyla, you need someone who you can trust. You’re alone in the darkness,” Nola said. 

She had slung the towel over her shoulder, then turned Shyla around to face her. Shyla’s sharp look had softened as Nola took her hands in hers. 

“I appreciate the concern, No-no,” she said. “But I need to be able to move, without having to argue with some stubborn-ass thug as to why I need to move.”

She reached up and touched the younger woman’s cheek, then stood on her tiptoes and kissed her. Bryne grinned as he sees Nola’s expression remain unmoved, even as she responded. 

“Nope,” Nola said when they had broken away. “Speaking as one of those stubborn-ass thugs, my professional assessment is that you’re full of shit.”

The moment had grown even chillier between them. 

A tiny burst of sensation at the base of his neck brings him back to the present. His eyes narrow as he sees several nearly identical Nikto move towards him. He stares at his route ahead; two Gamorreans block his way. 

He shifts his long coat, a purloined garment from the day that he and Ahsoka had re-connected. Bryne had changed into his armor as they had left the hotel; the ragged business suit had been left in Xizor’s suite. 

His hand moves towards his left side, but stops. The old DC-15S that had been his companion since the end of the war no longer hung from its assault harness. 

It had been what he had given up—a small thing, when they had defeated the Force entity known as the Asundrance on Felucia. A physical thing, in addition to giving up some of his pain at the uncertainty of his Master’s death. The blaster had been too far gone from the bolt to salvage. 

He sighs as his hand moves to the DL-44 on his hip. 

“Hello, boys and girls,” he says. “Ready for the big dance?”

There is no reply as they close on him. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a familiar face looking at him with an acerbic grin. 

A grin under dark eyes and a nasty scar circling his forehead at his hairline.

* * *

Ahsoka walks through the afternoon crowds in the old spaceport. She smiles slightly at the memories; memories made early in her career as Fulcrum. She laughs to herself, then stops as she realizes that she’s engaged the attention of a few of her fellow commuters. She gives one whose gaze lingers a hard look, then ducks into an alley. 

The air of the information-brokers’ world is almost heavy—heavy with the knowledge and power to be gained. Knowledge and power that can be deadly, as she had almost found out on several occasions in her past. She stops before a plain door and enters a code. The door slides away, revealing a tiny closet cluttered with crates and small barrels. She manages to wedge herself in and sits on one of the smaller crates. She can only wait now. Meglann had texted her plan to her; she had decided to give the younger woman a wide berth for the plan to germinate. 

She smiles as she thinks of the trip from Alderaan; the hours spent in Covenant’s arms. Talking and laughing, content, as always, to merely exist. She feels her skin flush—yes, there had been some more strenuous existing; she remembers the taste of his skin as their mouths had played over each other. 

There had been a lot of talking, even as they tried to catch their breaths. She grins. Talking about the young woman that she is giving space to. 

“I know you’re worried about her, Ahsoka,” he had said, as he pulled her to his chest. “I am too. But not everyone can be a Jedi.” He had yelped as her teeth had scored over his nipple. She had screamed with his retaliation—his fingers moving over her navel and the skin of her sides, as well as a bit lower.

When the adolescence had calmed, she had nodded. “I know. I’m over that. But I’m not ready to recruit someone else that I’ll grow close to.” She had looked down and away. “I don’t think my job needs too many more connections.”

She had felt his smile against her ribcage. “I know,” he said. “We’re your protection. But just make sure that you don’t lose yourself in this damned job. I’ve got enough work to keep Nola from shoving us all away.”

She smiles softly, thinking of her ex-handler. “I know. I’m not trying to go back to where I was on Raada,” she said, mentioning the farming moon that she had spent time on, right after Order 66. A time when she had isolated herself from everyone, until her nature wouldn’t allow her to submerge herself—no—isolate herself from the pain of the galaxy. 

A pain that she had shared, thinking that everyone that she had known and loved was dead. Including the man whose skin warmed hers on that old shuttle.

She shakes the thoughts away. This isn’t exactly the place to have thoughts of that warm skin, as well as other parts, even with the privacy of the closet.

She feels her wrist comm vibrate. She looks at the screen, then touches the ‘accept’ button. She takes a deep breath as the layers of encryption surrounds the transmission.

“Hello, Dragon,” she says as the craggy visage forms above the comm. 

“Hello, love,” the old man replies. 

Ahsoka laughs as two small faces intrude in the holocomm. Talle, Drop’s daughter, and Jamelyn Blackthorn, the Elector-Presumptive of Corellia giggle before they turn to attend to the chore of being little girls. They each reward her with a smile before they run off, as she blows them both a kiss.

Draq’ Bel Iblis gives her one of his rare, non-reptilian smiles. “So how’re you doing? How’s my dumbass?”

She grins. “Oh, you know. He’s still a dumbass.” She looks away for a moment, when her gaze locks with his again, she sees the tenderness in his piercing eyes. “How’s retirement?”

“Boring as shit. I seem to be playing a great deal of hide and seek.” He blows his own kiss off-camera. She sees him grow serious. “I may have a twist to this whole thing.”

She watches as he takes a sip of caf and gathers himself. “There may be a new version of Xerus going on with the Imps,” he says. 

She digests this. “How do you know?”

“Sources told me that there’s a young officer facing execution on a Star Destroyer. It just happened to be the one that Nola had traveled on; the one that her acquaintance is XO of.”

“Okay. But how is that connected?”

“A little note on her file. She’d been attached to something called Project Starsweep.”

She makes a non-committal noise in her throat. “Okay. Descriptive name. What’s the connection to Xerus?”

“Xerus is High Corellian for ‘sweeping the stars’ or something.”

_Of course it is_ , she thinks with a Smirk. Her mind immediately flies to the sensation of Covenant whispering Corellian words against her lekku as the light builds in her head from his gentle thrusts—

“Come on, Fulcrum, focus,” Draq’ says dryly. “I can tell when you’re thinking about my nephew’s parts being connected with yours.”

She pushes whatever tell she has on her face away. “You let me worry about your nephew’s parts, Dragon,” she says. “What’s the plan?”

“Touchstone is checking to see if she’s already been shot. There are indications she might help us, if we can extricate her from this.”

“Oh yeah? What kind of indications?”

“The fact that she was sentenced to death for refusing to fire on a medical ship.”

Ahsoka closes her eyes. “Okay. Thin, but I’ll accept that. We have a plan?”

“Not really. But it might need Nola trying to make nice with her Imp,” he replies. 

She shakes her head. “I don’t know if I like her getting in deeper with the Imps. From what she told me, the Captain and stormtrooper commander might be psychopaths.”

“I know,” Draq’ says. “But I think we need to get some idea of that technology.” He looks down. “I met Sloane’s older sister during the last year of the war. It was around the time that our dumbass was on Rhayme’s ship.” He closes his eyes. “I think I owe it to her memory to try and make this connection with Rae Sloane. I think Nola might hold out hopes that she can turn her.” He smiles. “Jana Sloane did a lot to form Bryne into the man he is now, for better or worse.”

_He ain’t the only one_ , Ahsoka thinks, remembering a single conversation over hot chocolate in the first year of the war. One that had stuck with her as much as anything her master had taught her—it was just as powerful. “So what’s the connection with this prisoner?”

“Nola said that Rae didn’t seem to be enthused about her being ended,” he replies. 

“Very thin,” Ahsoka replies. 

“It seems to be our motto,” he replies. “As soon as you get through there, you might want to head to Raxus. The Star Destroyer’s headed there.”

Ahsoka nods. “Okay. But this whole thing started with a wedding invite. Never been to one before.”

He laughs. “A Zeltron wedding’s an experience. Think of the fertility festival that you attended, all focused in three standard days’ time.”

“Alrighty then,” she replies, thinking of the joy and light in her experience of that festival. _Incentive to get this over with._

Besides trying to save a life and turn an Imperial.

* * *

Nola fees the point of the knife moving against the straining tendons in her neck as she fights for her life. She closes her eyes, focusing on the noises around her as she tries to shove the vision of her slit throat ejecting gouts of arterial blood against the permacrete wall. 

_Morbid, much, No-no?_ she somehow manages to think. She clinches her teeth, then manages to wrest her legs from where they are entangled with her would-be killer’s. Somewhere in her mind, she makes a note that her attacker is a bit shorter than she is. 

Nola takes a page from Covenant’s Mandalorian heritage, shoving her head backwards. She is treated to three sensations in her racing mind. She hears and feels a satisfying crunch as her skull connects with the assassin’s nose. Next, she feels the point of the blade move away from the right side of her throat, giving her a slight respite.

Only a slight one as she sees the attacker’s biceps flex, struggling against her. 

The final sensation is noted only in passing, as she feels a pair of feminine breasts against her back, confirming her thoughts after hearing the attacker’s voice in a grunt of pain. _Okay, so no package to twist_ , she thinks acerbically, remembering her foster-sister’s training. 

Dani’s training had included vulnerable areas on any gender, not just male.

Especially with certain gifts that were included in the lesson. Her right hand is still twisted behind her, her left doesn’t have the leverage to grab her blaster. 

She smiles, moving her left hand up to one of the attacker’s breasts, squeezing it. She feels a relaxation in the woman’s body—a relaxation brought on by surprise. For an instant—only an instant, she is able to move her left hand from behind her as well. 

The woman’s grip tightens on her right as the left moves to her own chest. “Not today, dear,” the woman says in her medium alto voice. “As much as I’d enjoy a little fun, I’m kind of short on time. I have to make sure that your boyfriend is dead as well.”

_Might be harder than you expect_ , Nola thinks. She feels her heart sink as she realizes that she may not be around to see Covenant kick any of this woman’s thug’s asses up and down the thoroughfare. 

_Gotta stop with those negative waves, Vorserrie_ , she hears in Covenant’s dry voice in her mind. Her left hand moves into the vee of her top; falling on the object hanging between her breasts. 

Nola is satisfied by the scream—repeated as many times as her thrusts of the punch knife in the woman’s left thigh—over and over again.

She is rewarded by another relaxation of the grip on her other arm. She walks up the wall in front of her, then shoves away from it. She screams as the woman grabs her left hand and twists her little finger with an audible pop. She drops the blade, but manages to lever herself away from the wall. 

Nola drops her feet to the ground and shoves her attacker between the back of her body and the wall. She curses as she realizes that this move brings her strong hand into the vise of the woman’s left arm, trapping it. She feels the woman climb up her back, her right hand coming around. Nola sobs as she feels the sting of the knifepoint in her throat, near her artery. 

She sees Ahsoka’s face in her vision, as she resigns herself to death. Ahsoka’s face is joined by her other loves, then her family’s. She smiles to herself at the three young women and the young man at the forefront of her vision. 

Nola screams as an incredible pain lances into her left shoulder with a hard impact. She smells burning flesh; she realizes that it’s her own. 

Not just hers.

She realizes that someone has shot the woman through her body. She slumps to the ground. More blaster shots pepper the area, striking her would-be killer again in the side. She gets a glimpse of almond-shaped eyes and bronze skin of a human woman in her forties or fifties. 

Her vision fades from the pain as the woman turns and runs away from the fusillade of fire. Nola’s last thoughts are typical of her. 

_Which one of those assholes I was remembering in my last moments of life just shot me?_

* * *

Bryne Covenant turns a corner, taking a different route than the one he intended. He had managed to fight off or elude the first wave of thugs, but another, more persistent lot had decided that his head might look good on someone’s wall.

The question was, _whose_? 

His mind catalogs the last few months of his life. He tries to remember who he might’ve pissed off during that time period.

The list is long, but most of the ones on that list probably wouldn’t have sent assassins to kill him. 

_Well, Draq, might_ , he thinks, _since retirement_. Canda Rook, Draq’s assistant, is another possibility for violence, after a slight _misunderstanding_. Ahsoka, Meglann, Dani, or Nola would’ve taken care of the problem themselves, each in their own way. 

In spite of his concentration in saving his ass, he smiles as he thinks of the forms that retribution might take, depending on the level of their anger.

Thoughts of the four bring his comm up. “Hey, No-no,” he says. “In a bit of a bind. I might be late. Any chance of some help?”

Empty static mocks his attempt. He feels his brow furrowing at that. They had checked their comlinks before they had separated—both had worked. 

A couple of bright red energy bolts hit the wall near his head, signaling that a wave of his attackers had managed to catch up to him. He switches to rear view on his bucket, which he had donned in a respite during the first attack. 

The HUD identifies seven attackers. He smiles behind the _buy’ce_ as he realizes that they have all committed one of the cardinal sins of thug-dom. The HUD locks onto all of them in a whispered command; it is able to since they are all bunched together. He drops his blaster in his holster and lifts his left hand, pulling the sleeve of the coat back. There is a puff of air and a recoil as a metallic shape leaves the vambrace, igniting a tiny thruster.

All of the little red squares on his display turn to red X’s and then fade as the guided _beskar_ dart strikes all of them at neck level. He pays them no more heed as he continues to move. He stops, punching a few buttons on the opposite vambrace. He checks to see if any innocent bystanders had been injured, according to the local cops’ dispatch. 

None so far, but the cops were closing on his location. He shifts the display to a search for Nola’s comlink. 

It is stationary, near where they had started out. He breathes out, then turns to find a route back to Xizor’s hotel. 

His vision lights up with pain as he feels himself lifted and slammed against the nearest wall. The armor absorbs most of the impact. His hand moves towards his blaster; he manages to pull the weapon, before his wrists are seized and he is lifted again. He drops the blaster and tries to clear his display, which has joined his own vision in its own static. 

He is slammed against the wall again. His vision clears for a second; he catches a brief glimpse of two large tusks hanging from a narrow, triangular head over a furry body. The view fades as the Whiphid lifts him up and pulls him into the thick arms. 

Bryne’s vision begins to gray in from the edges as the thug begins to squeeze. Bryne runs through the catalog of weapons at his disposal in his vambrace and on his belt. He sighs as he realizes that his hand can just make it to the two lightsabers concealed in their pouches on the back of his belt.

A weapon that might bring even more cops—of the Imperial variety down on him if he ignites. He reaches his mind out to the Force, hoping against hope that his birthright is not on a lunch break. 

He feels a bit of a tickle in his Force sense; he focuses on expanding it as he feels his ribs compress. It is a race to see which will give first—his internal organs or the Force.

The pressure vanishes as he hears the noise of a blaster. He curses as the sound identifies the weapon as an Imperial version. 

The pressure returns as the Whiphid slumps on top of him. He manages to bring his hands to the bottom of his helmet and throw it off. He spits out a mouthful of fur as he tries to lift the attacker off of him.

He manages to bring his head from underneath. He rolls his eyes as his rescuer looks down at him, his blaster now holstered, his arms crossed over his chest. 

“You need some help, bud?” Dav Kolan asks. “I thought someone like you’d have no problem lifting a Whiphid.”

Covenant closes his eyes, cursing his luck.


	5. Five: Or bends with the remover to remove.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The waiting is the hardest thing. Cops and robbers, Zeltron style. The Diktat has spoken. Listen to your bartender. And your doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: Andressa Divo is a canon character introduced in the book _Scum and Villainy_. She is also the daughter of the Coruscant cop, Lieutenant Tan Divo, shown in several Clone Wars episodes.

**The Past  
The First Year of the Clone War**

Lassa watches as Mal Dolros waits. She smiles at his subtle fidgeting, as he waits for their contact. She sits back and lifts her own drink to her lips, thinking about family. Mal had brought her into the Blood Bone Order and had very easily shoved her into a position of responsibility—almost from the day that she had arrived, broken and grieving the loss of her chosen family. 

She quickly shoves visions of her lover, his sister, and her lover—of the last time she had seen them, after an encounter with a Trade Federation commissar, away.

A family that she had been the only survivor. She starts, realizing that Mal’s dark eyes are focused on her. He reaches over and touches her cheek. “You with me, Quartermaster?” he asks. 

“Always, Captain. But I’m not sure that I trust the Corellians in this thing,” she says. She looks away at his gaze. 

A slight smile rises on the right side of his mouth; the mustache twitches with the move. “I know. But this could be a lucrative deal for us, Lass,” he replies. She lets the warmth suffuse her heart at the diminutive—a place that had become vacant and frozen for the last year. 

Since her family had died on Durd’s ropes. 

“Yeah, but it’s risky, Mal,” she says. “You could lose the crew. There could be a vote-out.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” he asks. Her eyes widen at his matter-of-fact words. 

“I think it is, Captain,” she replies with her own bluntness. “This crew would fall apart, with the gomers that would be in the running.”

“All except one,” he says, the mystery thick in his voice. 

A huge figure, hulking, actually walks up to their table. Lassa stares at him, her hand on her blaster in its crossdraw rig. The figure is hooded, with their face covered in a swath of bandages. She can just make out a pair of golden eyes, but can’t even see the skin around the eyes. Her eyes narrow at the flare of the cloth away from the bandages, as if something is sticking out from the sides of his head.

“What?” she says.

The figure turns to Dolros. “Who has the balls in this particular group?” he asks in a deep voice. Lassa hears no accent, but detects a tiny bit of background snark and humor in the intonation.

He looks down at her A180 placed precisely where the objects in question are located on most humanoid males.

He doesn’t move, but he inclines his head. Lassa holsters her weapon.

“You got a job for us?” Mal asks. 

“Possibly. Depends on how good you are and whether you can handle a little bit of _objection_ from one of the parties involved in this little galactic set-to.”

“Sep or Republic?”

“Maybe both,” he replies. 

“So where are we headed and what are we going after?” Mal asks. 

“Slow down,” the behemoth replies. “You might not be good enough for my Board of Directors.”

Lassa stands up angrily. “Are you shitting me? I thought we were being hired by a bunch of smugglers that were too chickenshit to do their own dirty work—” She quiets at Mal’s look. 

The contact stares at her, then nods, as if in approval. “We can fight our battles. We just prefer to subcontract this one out. The Guild needs to insulate our principals a little bit.”

“The Guild? Sounds kind of pretentious,” Lassa says. 

She can feels the grin behind the wrappings. “Yeah. Nothing like the “Blood Bone Order’,” he says in that desert-dry voice. 

Lassa wisely decides to remain silent, after another look from her Captain. 

The Guild’s agent passes a credit chip along to Mal. “That’s enough of a retainer. More than enough, plus some for expenses. Head to the Azdriel system. You’ll be contacted by the Guildmaster there to brief you on what you’re looking for.”

He rises from the booth and stalks out the door of the cantina.

Lassa stares after him, then turns her attention back to Mal, who is flipping the credit chip over the backs of his fingers. She chuffs in annoyance and snatches it from him. She takes a glance at the amount window. Her eyes widen; she looks at Mal.

“This could solve some problems,” she says. “Like when to eat next.”

“Mmph,” he says. 

“What?” Lassa asks. 

“Nothing. Just thinking a bit. About the future.”

She stares at him for a moment. After several moments of the gaze, he gives her his wry grin, one that if he had been a different man, would’ve dropped her trousers in a heartbeat.

She looks away. She’d never gotten any inkling from him of any emotion other than pure respect. 

Respect and an easy comradeship—a comradeship that had taught her so much. 

She focuses on his face. 

His face is still in her memory as she comes awake. She realizes that she is no longer suspended in the ray-shield, but lying on the deck of the cell. 

Lassa lifts up from where her head is pillowed on something soft. She hears a soft, melodic humming; a sound that makes her wonder if she is dead. She opens her eyes and looks up into the face of a crimson-skinned angel. 

The young— _very young_ Zeltron woman, maybe seventeen, looks down at her. She feels a warm, wet cloth playing over the various wounds and bruises on her face. The young woman’s blue eyes focus on her. 

“It’s alright, dear. I’ve got you. We’ve got a few minutes before Loganer comes back. Everything’s moving according to plan.”

“Great,” Lassa says. “Maybe the next ‘plan’ won’t include me feeling like my face has been stomped by a rancor.” She almost doesn’t recognize her own voice, as raspy and unused as it is. 

Unused except for screaming and cursing.

She hears a giggle from the young woman. Lassa marvels at the light, jewel-like sounds. “I’ll speak to the planner,” she says. She reaches down and gives Lassa a soft kiss on her bruised lips.

_Damned Zeltron flirting_ , Lassa Rhayme thinks. She smiles as she loses herself in the resonance; its waves flow over her, warming her. 

Some of her aches recede. The pain from her lost stays with her.

* * *

Dani Faygun stands as the ISB agent walks into the small cafe. She shakes her head as she realizes how much time in her professional life she spends in eating establishments. She grins. _Or bars._

Her grin widens as the agent’s brown eyes fall on the number of plates in front of her. The woman starts, then locks eyes with Dani. Dani lets her eyes roam over the agent’s trim body in the field-gray uniform. Dani’s eyes rise to the even features and dark hair in a short bob, pulled back in a small ponytail, giving her an even more youthful appearance. There was something familiar about the woman, a human _(of course)_ of about her own age.

_Hmm._

On a whim, she opens her resonance a tiny bit, reflecting her interest in Andressa Divo. She hears the Bryne Covenant-voice in her mind. _You just can’t help yourself, can you, ta’in’gere?_ Her grin turns soft as she realizes the voice of her brother-of-the-heart is mixed with at least three others. Young women who share her heart as well. She turns her focus to the job at hand.

After a moment, Divo grins and returns the appraisal at least. “Not that I’m not flattered darling, but you can turn down the hoodoo. It’s not exactly wasted on me, but I’ve got a job to do. Maybe after I give you a lesson in _de-tecting_ , we can get naked.”

Another voice intrudes in her mind. The gravelly mix of Corellia, the Outer Rim, and the University of Bar’leth of her father, Draq’ Bel Iblis. _I like her. Finally someone who doesn’t think about her nethers all of the time. Maybe I’ll hire her._

_Like you don’t, Dragon_ , she thinks as she sends the voices of her conscience away. 

“So what can I do for Corellia. Or is it for Zeltros?” Divo asks. 

“Corellia, for the moment,” she replies, letting the lie roll of her tongue. “I understand that you’re looking into a Corellian citizen.”

Divo’s eyes narrow as she picks up the menu. “Interesting. I just started looking at Rik Duel. Didn’t think a two-bit scumbag would attract the interest of the Electarine-Caretaker of Corellia,” she says. 

Dani raises one eyebrow. “You’ve done your homework, dear,” Dani says. “I’m just looking into something. Keeps my hand in, between all those social engagements—you know, the luncheons and orgies.”

Divo types in an order, then closes the menu-holo. “I could insist, dear,” she says quietly. 

Dani rolls her eyes. “Oh please. We’re both cops. I read your file, just like you read mine. Your father was a Coruscant cop—an Inspector. So were you for a brief time. Something from Corellia’s past has come up; I thought I’d look into it.” Her eyes narrow. “Delilah Sal, the Imperial Advisor of Corellia will vouch for me, if you need. “

After a moment, Divo nods. “That might help. But the writ you have from an Imperial magistrate compelling assistance is why I’m sitting here trying to resist your charms.”

Dani doesn’t betray any surprise at that. She wonders what the Covenant of Corellia will say when he finds out that he was the magistrate in question. Instead, she gives Divo a warm smile, with only a hint of come-hither in it. “Good to know that you’re having to work at resisting, Agent,” she says. 

“Call me Divo,” she says matter-of-factly. “Maybe if we graduate to a rematch of the ‘54 Core finals, I’ll give you a first name to scream out.” Her grin turns almost feral.

Dani stares at the ISB agent, as a memory is jogged. A memory of a gout of blood from a goalie’s nose after connecting with the ball. 

“You were the Coruscant Polytechnic goalie,” Dani says, snapping her fingers. 

“Yes,” Divo replies. “You were the twit of a forward who spiked that penalty kick into my face.”

“You shouldn’t have moved,” Dani replies. She reaches up and rubs her jaw, ruefully. “Was it worth it being kicked out for fighting?”

“Not really,” Divo replies. “But it was damned satisfying after I punched you.”

Dani grins. “We still won the series, though. I wasn’t suspended; I was only ejected for the rest of that game, not the series. Shouldn’t have thrown that punch.”

“You won only because someone wore our forward and center out the night before, so they weren’t worth a shit the next day,” Divo says. “Guess you could call that tampering.”

Dani smiles innocently and examines her nails. “They didn’t have to go to bed with me,” she says. “I was just having some fun.” She looks into the dark eyes, her look going a little harder. “Just like you didn’t have to hit me in the jaw.”

“So you cheated,” Divo says. Dani says nothing.

Divo matches her smile after a moment, then says quietly, “They weren’t as good as they thought they were. You took them down a peg or two. Wish you could’ve been standing next to them when they realized their fuck-buddy was the star forward of the UCCC Gamblers. It was almost worth the loss.” 

Divo shakes her head. “So what’s Corellia’s interest in Rik Duel?” Divo asks.

“Just a couple of unanswered questions about an old case,” Dani replies evenly. 

Divo stares at her. “I could ask less nicely,” she says idly, the threat hanging in the air again. 

“Many have tried, dear,” Dani replies. She points in the general direction of Divo’s nose, still bearing a different shape than she was born with. “Plus, that Magistrate’s writ might have said something like ‘don’t interfere with the local officer’s investigation’.”

Divo smiles tightly. “We in the ISB take those directives in writs as guidelines, rather than strict orders.”

They both stare at each other for several moments. The atmosphere is broken by the server droid bringing Divo’s bowl of soup. She dips the spoon in it and brings it to her lips, blowing on it for a few seconds. Her dark eyes remain fixed on Dani’s. Dani fights to keep hers from turning black with anger.

Divo sets her spoon down. “Okay, I’ll be the adult. The Empire is looking into the disappearance of a smuggler back in the Clone Wars. A smuggler who was listed as Duel’s guardian. A smuggler who might be showing interest in another from that time, that the Empire might have a slight interest in.”

“Didn’t know ISB was in the missing persons business. What’s his name?”

“ _Her_ name is classified and need to know. So why are you interested?”

“Duel might’ve made off with something important to some friends of Corellia. We’d like to discuss it with him,” Dani replies.

Divo grins. “So does this have to do with a teenaged Zeltron who should’ve known better?” she asks. 

“Maybe. We’d like to keep her out of it, if possible. Adolescent stupidity isn’t a crime,” Dani replies, staring into Divo’s eyes. 

“It could be, if she wastes Imperial time.”

“Well, you can deal with Duel. I don’t have much interest in him. I’ll handle the stupidity part.”

“Glad to know you have a specialty, dear,” Divo snarks. 

“I learned it watching you play, darling,” Dani replies without missing a beat.

After a moment, Divo looks up from her food. She pushes the half-finished bowl away.

“Okay. I’ll bite. I haven’t gotten very far. I have a lead in the undercity,” she says. Her eyes gleam with what could be called mischief on any other face than an ISB agent’s. “Maybe you can get us in. They thought I might be too ‘official’, if you know what I mean.”

Dani’s grin grows equally as mischievous. “Maybe I can help you look less official, dear,” she says. She reaches over and touches Divo’s wrist, moving her nails lightly over the warm palm.

“Much less official.”

* * *

Shyla watches as the captain of the _Jamestyn’s Hope_ pours her drink carefully. Tamsin carefully replaces the cork and slides it into a rack. Shyla grins at the care, at the protection of the precious thirty year old Whyren’s single malt. 

It might be an estimation of Shyla’s worth that she was able to get a few fingers of the whisky. She looks around the cabin. The plain furnishings don’t reflect the bright colors of Tamsin’s hair, once again changed to the dark green of the Faithstripe that circles her vessel. The whisky bottle might be the only fancy thing in the cabin.

She shakes her head, realizing that she is undergoing her own scrutiny from the Alderaanian. Tamsin raises her glass to her lips, but her light brown eyes remain on Shyla’s face. 

“What?” Shyla asks, breathing out.

“Oh, nothing,” Tamsin finally says. “Just wondering if I’ll have a Hutt infestation on my ship at any time.”

“Maybe. Don’t knock what you haven’t tried, dear,” Shyla replies. She feels a slight bit of triumph at Tamsin’s widened eyes. She manages to hold her straight face longer than she had thought she would. 

Tamsin rolls her eyes as Shyla bursts into slight laughter. _Wow, I’m really reaching for humor these days_ , she thinks. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll let you know if we need to transport one.”

She sees Tamsin’s face grow serious as she lifts a datapad. “So you have something for me on Panteer?”

“Yeah,” Tamsin replies. “The old man sent it to me. He figured you might want to know, given your history with ol’ Dory.”

_You mean the fact that he was conspiring on Corellia to reveal the Covenant’s gifts—such as they are, to the Empire, bringing death and destruction to my world?_ she thinks, but doesn’t say. Instead she says, “Yeah. The fact that he wasn’t put in jail for my staged murder might constitute a history. But at least he’s off Corellia.”

“Pity that he was inflicted on Fondor, though,” Tamsin replies. “Got a promotion to Moff out of it.”

Shyla looks away. “Yeah. We seem to just be moving him to someone else, to be their problem.”

“Alderaan did the same thing, when he tried to put Nola in jail,” Tamsin remarks. “They couldn’t get anything on him to stick. The Organas had to cut their losses to protect their side gigs.”

Shyla looks sharply at her. Tamsin returns her look. “I know what I can talk about and who I can talk about it with. I think I’ve proven my loyalty, Shyla,” she says evenly. 

After a moment, Shyla nods tightly. “I know. Just very high stakes, with life and death involved.”

“You forget that I could get it in the neck with anyone else,” Tamsin says. “The Empire isn’t too particular.”

“So what has peaked his Grace’s interest?” Shyla asks, breaking the leaden atmosphere. At least for a moment.

“An engineer from the Clone Wars. Someone that had something to do with Project Xerus,” Tamsin replies. She looks expectantly at Shyla. 

Shyla stares back at her, debating how much she can tell Tamsin, without betraying trusts. 

Tamsin nods after a moment. “I know,” she says. “You’re balancing something delicate. Debating about lying to me.” She smiles and reaches out, touching Shyla’s cheek. 

Shyla feels her eyes widen at the softness of the gesture—softness that goes against Tamsin’s nature. She looks down. “How do you know?”

Tamsin drops her hand, then takes Shyla’s in hers. “Your right eye leads the other up and to the right,” she replies with a grin. The expression fades. “It never seems to be that you’re lying for yourself, Shy,” Tamsin says softly. “But if I’m going to be carting you around, I’ll need to know a little bit.”

After a moment, Shyla nods. “She was a Separatist engineer during the war. A young prodigy, who suddenly recognized that she was on the wrong side. She was an orphan, born on Coruscant, but found her way to Corellia. She grew up on the streets, but managed to escape.”

Tamsin listens intently. “She was fostered after a time on Corellia, by a very strong woman. A woman who noted her worth and made sure that she was able to graduate from the apprentice engineer program on Fondor.” Shyla continues. “I don’t know how she found herself in the Seppie orbit. She had come back to Corellia at one point, but we lost track of her before the war.”

“So why is ol’ Dorith showing interest in her?” Tamsin asks. 

“I don’t know. She’s very talented, but I’m not sure if there’s a personal reason for him or if he’s just advocating for Noar Zan Arbor and AWR. Zan Arbror’s the deputy director there now—a geneticist by training, but seems to stick her nose in a lot of places.”

Tamsin slaps her thighs in agreement. “I think we just might want to find that engineer.”

Shyla nods in agreement. “So we’re headed somewhere?” she asks. 

“Yeah. Your choice. We apparently have some options. Nola and the wanker,”—Shyla grins at the nickname for Covenant—”have Raxus covered. The destroyer should be arriving there. Our choices are the Ardalen system, which was the original information that Alderaan had, or the new idea that the Azdriel system is involved. Information that you got from Black Sun.”

Shyla hopes that her expression is even at the mention of the first system, as connections are made. Connections that have been nagging her since she had heard the name originally.

“Do we have a name?” Tamsin asks. 

“What?” Shyla starts.

“A name for this engineer.”

Shyla shakes her head. “Only a codename, from the time she turned on the Seppies and CorSec handled her. Ladiana.” Her eyes grow distant for a moment. 

“Set course for Azdriel,” Shyla says, coming back to the present. She doesn’t explain. “Have Draq’ get his pet troll of a slicer on something. We may need to see if we can get our own ISB Aurek agent involved.”

Shyla Merricope ignores Tamsin’s curious expression as she stares at her. After a moment, Tamsin turns away and exits the cabin.

Shyla stares out at the stars, thinking about connections. She is still staring as she hears the hyperdrive come on line and the stars turn to streaks, then a tunnel of disorder.

* * *

Thyla watches Selda as he polishes the bar with his mechanical right arm. Her eyes soften as she looks at his scarred visage, as well as his half-lekku. He looks up at the scrutiny and returns her gaze. She looks away, apologetically. Out of the corner of her good eye, she sees him reach out with his left hand. She feels the cool skin on her cheek as he draws her gaze back to him. He smiles warmly, letting her know that he isn’t self-conscious about his injuries. 

She looks down, her hand touching her new eyepatch. _At least one of us isn’t_ , she thinks. His scarred smile grows even warmer. With his mechanical hand, he reaches below the bar and pulls out a bottle filled with green liquid—one that appears to be rarely opened. A smile breaks out over her purple features as she recognizes Tevraki Green—a particular favorite of the young woman who is foremost on her mind, as well as the angry Thlothian next to her. 

Selda pours them both a shot. After a moment, Adis’s face calms, if at least a little bit. He brings his glass to his lips. Thyla raises her hand to his cheek, then to his thick right arm. He turns his face to hers; he nods in understanding.

He turns back to Selda. “So what’s this Krtsador’s story? What’ve we sent Meglann into?” he asks. 

Selda pours himself a small shot of an orange, foul-smelling liquor. He brings it to his lips, grimacing at the taste. Thyla raises her brow. 

“Tradition,” he says at her look. He turns back to Adis. “Krtsador is, as you would say, a scumbag. He’s good at finding information, but he’d double cross his own litter-mates, if he could squeeze an extra credit out of a deal.” He looks down. “Your Quartermaster discovered that, on one of her first jobs,” he says. 

Thyla and Adis look at one another, then back to Selda. 

“Yeah, I know,” he says at their looks. “It’s hard to believe, but she could be over-focused on her objective back then. She wound up in an Imperial drunk tank, without the information she was after.”

“That had to go over well,” Adis says dryly. “Young women that I know, don’t take kindly to embarrassment,” he says. He looks at Thyla with a pointed expression. “Even high-speed pirate captains and navigators.”

Thyla punches his arm. “Yeah, low-speed, high drag gunners don’t suffer from ego-overdose, either. Never,” she says. She returns his look of pride, knowing his true feelings for who she knows he refers to as his ‘daughters’ in private. 

Selda smiles at the byplay. “Well, that particular young woman had the last laugh. She managed to get the ISB on his case, when he tried to sell their information—information that he didn’t even have. Even supplanting his rival hasn’t helped his business to recover. He’s even had to go back to bounty hunting to make up his lost income.”

Adis shakes his head. “Great. I hate bounty hunters,” he says. 

“I agree, my rotund friend,” says a voice behind them. Thyla clinches her teeth at the distinctive voice cuts into their conversation. 

Hondo Ohnaka slides in between Thyla and Adis. Thyla shakes her head at Adis’s thunderous expression, as the Weequay slides him out of the way with his hip. Selda grins at Adis; he edges the shot of orange liquor closer to the ex-pirate. 

Hondo lives up to expectation and cadges the drink. Thyla and Adis are treated to a volley of coughing, as well as Hondo turning a different shade of gray and then green. He manages not to projectile vomit, but it is a close run thing.

When the coughing subsides, Hondo narrows his eyes at the bartender, who doesn’t seem alarmed by the expression. 

“I have some information about the two wayward kids that seem to be at the heart of the matter,” he says grandly. 

_As grandly as anyone with an animal shell on his head can_ , Thyla thinks to herself. “I’m listening, has-been,” she says, beating Adis to it. 

He focuses on her, his eyes sharp through the goggles. “Yes, dear. I’m a has-been. I was a pirate captain when your beloved Lassa was sucking at her mama’s tit,” he remarks. He turns away to Adis. 

Adis takes his shoulder in a gentle grip and turns his body so that he faces Thyla. He lets the grip go a little tighter. 

Hondo rolls his eyes and shakes himself from the grip. Adis allows it. 

“They were throwing questions around about both Lassa’s ship and something in the Ardalen system,” he says. 

Thyla and Adis look at one another. They had already heard that the Ardalen system was in play, based upon Meglann’s information from the Alderaanians. 

“Go on,” Adis says, in what passes for a gentle tone. 

“I have an in with an employee of Krtsador. One that might not be so helpful to him; the old man hasn’t exactly treated him well since, their, ah, _merger_.

“Locanson,” Selda says. “The adopted son of his rival, who he helped betray, in that same caper that your Quartermaster was involved in.”

Thyla nods. She fixes Hondo with a sharp, one-eyed gaze. “Okay, Ohnaka,” she says. “We’ll bite. But this has the capacity to go crooked. Let’s see what comes out from the rock that you turned over.”

Thyla isn’t reassured by the look of satisfaction that Hondo gives. She isn’t sure that the expression might not be one of constipation, rather than any emotional expression.

* * *

The darkness shrinks to a pinpoint behind her eyes. She can hear indistinct noises—voices really—as she struggles against something. 

A burst of light helps Nola to realize what she is struggling against. Intense pain, centered in her left shoulder, radiating down to and from her hand. She hears another noise over the voices, closer. 

A low whimper. She realizes that the sound is hers, in her own voice. Nola forces her eyes open. 

A young man looks down at her with smiling dark eyes—eyes that appear to have only a tiny bit of concern in them—but not because he doesn’t have plenty of empathy. She knows from past experience that this is not the case.

_Good to know—that means I might live_ , she thinks to herself. She focuses on his face, growing more familiar as her mind’s fog lessens. The memory of a small moon; this young man working to thwart the Empire’s genetic experiments on former clones, as well as helping to save her responsibility, a young Togruta ex-Jedi. 

She manages to return his smile, carefully. She feels her facial muscles protesting even that slight movement.

“I seem to always be fixing you or that other one for something or other,” Dek says warmly. He looks over to his left. “Of course, this one, as well,” he says, jerking his head in that direction. 

“Who the hell shot me?” she croaks, without prelude. She fights to lift her head, to look in the direction that he had indicated. She closes her eyes as she feels his strong hand behind her neck. 

Bryne Covenant returns her look, his green eyes filled with worry. Her eyes focus on the figure standing next to him. A young woman dressed in a version of business attire, the jacket casually resting on the dresser. She realizes that she is lying in the large bed in the main cabin of the _Laughing Beskad._

Her eyes move up to the young woman’s face. A tuft—a fountain, really, of silver hair is gathered up from the center of her shaven skull. She gazes back at Nola with eyes that seem to change color every other second. A small jewel in the center of her forehead gleams in the low light. The woman lifts the tibanna gas cylinder of a long rifle, attaching it to the weapon, which shines with fresh cleaning. 

“Yelena Dao,” Nola manages. “What the hell are you doing here, YardMaster?”

The young woman smiles. “Meglann sent me a message. She said that since I was already here, I might get some target practice in, that I might be needed to save the ass of a beautiful fixer.” She smirks, glancing at Covenant. “Or semi-handsome dumbasses.”

She takes a deep breath. “I’m hoping to find something that I can use on Fondor, as well. She mentioned that our new Moff is involved.”

Nola exhales. “Panteer,” she manages to speak. There is only a slight hint of a curse in her voice. She lays back as Covenant and Yelena walks over. Both of them touch her cheek.

“I’m sorry, Nola,” Yelena says. “I saw your throat about to be cut. I didn’t feel like I had a lot of choice.”

Nola reaches up and touches the location of yet another small pain. A small wound on her throat, just above where it meets her shoulder, above her left collarbone. She moves her hand up and touches the Yardmaster of the Dao-Aspeff shipyard’s hand. Without taking her eyes from Yelena and Covenant’s, she asks Dek. “So what’s the verdict? Will I play the valachord again?”

Dek rolls his eyes, his opinion on her wit apparent all over his handsome face. “Maybe. The shoulder wound’s through and through. I’m in contact with Hegridhara to get his recipe for the hyperbacta that actually works on you without causing your airways to close.”

_Oh, that little thing_ , she thinks. 

“You’re one of the few people I’ve treated that’s allergic to bacta.” He reaches down to her left hand. “This one may preclude your musical career. The killer did a number on your pinkie finger.” She looks down at the bandaged hand. There is a decidedly sharp angle protruding from the left side. 

She allows just a moment of vanity. Bryne reaches down and kisses her cheek, then kisses the back of that hand. She sees his crooked grin play over his features. ‘It’s okay, Nola. It’s not often a beautiful woman has the hands of a smashball offensive guard.”

“Asshole,” she says. “Are you okay? Did you have any trouble?”

He looks behind him. “Well, my guardian angel seems to be actually useful,” he says. Nola’s eyes narrow as Dav Kolan grins at her.

“Okay. I can understand that Yelena might be here because her cousin decided that we needed overwatch. This is too much of a coincidence for these two to be here,” she says, indicating Dek and Dav.

“It really is, Madame Fixer,” Kolan says in his Coruscanti accent. “We’re just picking up some supplies for Dek’s little clinic on Rattatak.”

Bryne smiles. “Yeah, I’d heard that there was a few do-gooders operating out of Wild Space, healing genetic abnormalities and such. Never would’ve dreamed that you were involved, stud,” he says to Dav. 

Dav’s smile is surprisingly warm as he looks at Dek. Nola’s heart leaps at Dav’s soft expression. “You’d be surprised at what I do for love.”

“So what’s on the agenda?” Nola asks, breaking the moment. “The Resurgent is due to arrive soon. I need to see what they’re up to.”

“They might be a day or so out. Little birdies told us that she had an engineering casualty that slowed her down,” Bryne says. “Time enough for Dek to work his magic on you. It’s why we jumped out of the Raxus system.”

“What about my attacker?” she asks. 

Yelena smiles. Nola notices that the expression has a touch of evil in it; an expression out of place on her face—a face even younger than Meglann’s. “She has an extra couple of holes in her. Her wound might be a bit more serious since she was shorter than you. She’d basically climbed your frame to kill you.”

“Good thing that the fifteen meter woman was on the case,” Bryne says. 

Nola shakes her head. “You’re just jealous because Fulcrum says that you’re shrinking.”

She sees his face grow serious. “I’m trying to figure out who might be behind these attacks,” he says. 

“She said that I should’ve married her boss’s friend,” she replies. Her matter-of-fact tone belies the expression on her face. 

He nods. “Panteer again,” he says. “We identified the killer from your scope capture,” he finishes, looking at Yelena. 

“Ming Lardai. Jabba’s chief killer,” Dav says. 

“Maybe I should’ve married the bastard. There would’ve been less pain for my loved ones,” Nola says. 

Bryne reaches down and kisses her. “No. Some of us think you’re worth the pain, No-no,” he says. “Of course, we’re used to having pain inflicted from you. Usually centered around our asses or our necks.”

Nola laughs briefly, but feels a wave of fatigue coming over her. 

Dek Antilles notices. “Everybody out. She needs her sleep.”

“If it’s all the same to you, Doctor,” Yelena says, “I’ll stay here with her. I owe it to her.”

Nola manages to smile at the soft expression. After a moment, Dek nods. “Okay. Nothing strenuous, though.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Doc,” Yelena says innocently. 

“I guess we’ll find some entertainment in the common room,” Dek says. “Would love to have some time to converse with the Covenant, here.” He looks up at Dav, then at Bryne.

Nola rolls her eyes as the three men walk out of the cabin. 

As her vision fades, she sees Yelena remove her skirt and carefully climb into the bed. Nola’s last sensations are of her head pillowing on the Yardmaster’s shoulder, on her uninjured side.


	6. Six: O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meglann considers her new profession. Wedding plans, interrupted. Bryne and Dav catch up. Another pirate, another day. The Imperials count their ill-gotten gains.

Meglann takes a deep breath and walks through the open door. Her eyes narrow at the faux classical decor of the audience chamber. Her eyes move away from the overabundance of cheap art—her one art-history class at the University had resonated with her; she grins as she remembers her own sketchbook. Nothing compared to her uncle’s talent, but not bad. 

She realizes that the object of her inquiry is eyeing her. She takes a deep breath and returns the scrutiny, but with less hunger. She looks down at herself, shoving the few sparks of self-consciousness away. She feels the light breeze on her upper torso; Cyn Eldar had impressed upon her that Krstador could be distracted by a pair (or any number, actually) of female breasts on display. 

As a matter of fact, Cyn had done more than talk. She had assisted Meglann in bringing hers on display by opening her shirt to somewhere down around her navel. She shakes the feel of the Mandalorian Handmaiden’s hands on her skin. _Concentrate, Florlin, she thinks. Get through this, then there might be dinner in your future._

“Hello, my dear,” Krtsador intones smoothly. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” He smiles with a quality that can only be called wolfish—even though a part of Meglann winces at the thought. _An insult to wolves everywhere_.

“Looking for information,” she says. She notices his eyes locked on her chest. She purses her lips and pulls her shoulders back. _It ain’t like you haven’t done it before,_ thinking of certain parties she had attended at university, when women or men who had piqued her interest were present. 

_Of course, your own awkwardness had given those times mixed success._

“Can you afford my prices, my dear?” he asks, breaking into her trip down memory lane. 

“Perhaps,” she replies, giving what she hopes is a hooded look. She grins to herself, thinking that her look works on at least four people—a huntress, a hunter, a fixer, and a spy. _Of course, they’re all easy._

“So can you give me a hint, dear?” Krtsador asks. 

“I’ve got a lead on some profit,” she says evenly. “But there’s someone I need to talk to, in order to make it happen.”

“And who might that be?”

“Delto Loganer.”

Meglann watches as Krtsador’s expression changes from one of lust, to one of avarice, at least for an instant. 

He looks down at his nails, his face going blank. “Lot of people seem to be showing interest in that particular scumbag,” he says. “I at least know the others. You, my dear, I don’t know. That makes your interest very deadly.” The vulpine smile returns. “At least to you.”

Meglann’s hand moves down to the blaster as she detects the tension rising in his guards. 

Krtsador raises one finger. “No, my dear. You’d be cut down before you could clear that huge blaster from your holster.” 

She keeps her hand near the weapon, nonetheless. 

“You’re giving me a tantalizing glimpse of your gifts,” he continues, indicating her shirt. “I think that you might make a nice adornment for my dais. My other adornments seem to have deserted my employment.”

“I don’t think so, asshole,” she hears in a deep Pantoran accent. She grits her teeth as Sorentin Rhayme and his pet musclehead, Gral Kruvure walk in.

“You backstabbing son of a bitch,” she says, her anger rising. 

Rhayme holds up his hand. “Language, child,” he says. He turns to Krtsador. “That information that I gave you is contingent on your cooperation. Cooperation including not threatening any of my allies.”

 _Allies_? Meglann thinks incredulously. 

Krtsador looks hard at the pair. “Just because Hondo recommended you, and you threatened me once, doesn’t mean that it’s set in stone that I’ll work with you two assholes,” he says.

All of the thugs that make up Krtsador’s little inner guard are suddenly pointing blasters at Gral and Sorentin. Meglann smiles to herself. _That means they aren’t focused on me._

That little detail is remedied as an Ithorian, one nursing a dislocated shoulder walks up to her and points a blaster at her head. 

“I think that I’m more prepared for you, now, Rhayme,” Krtsador says. “Maybe our deal is off.”

There is a burst of noise and light, coupled with a roaring sound. The Ithorian drops, his head suddenly perforated. Out of the corner of her eye, Meglann sees an armored figure flitting around the ceiling, dodging the blaster bolts of Krtsador’s other thugs. 

Meglann hauls her blaster out; its deep bass joins the cacophony of others. She feels two large presences on her periphery, unloading blaster bolts in opposite directions. 

“So which side are you on, now?” Meglann asks between shots.

“My own, as always,” Rhayme replies. “My family as well.” She hears the grin in his voice. “Guess that includes you, my dear, seeing that you and Lassa are friends.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Meglann snarks. She looks up and sees the beskar’gam-clad figure in the air, recoil as a two blaster bolts strike its jetpack. Her new ally tumbles to the ground. 

Meglann and the duo of bruisers have their own issues as Krtsador’s soldiers start to fall, from bolts other than their own. A larger force of thugs move in, surrounding them. 

Five minutes later, Meglann, Rhayme, and Gruvure are kneeling with their hands on their heads. The armored figure is dragged next to them deposited unceremoniously on the ground. 

Cyn Eldar manages to pull herself to her knees. Her dark eyes are decidedly unfocused. 

“I guess you’re my backup?” Meglann asks her, moving close to her and allowing Cyn to lean against her shoulder.

“You better be good in the sack,” Eldar responds. 

“I have references,” Meglann replies. 

They fall silent as a tall, muscular Mirialan male strides in. They turn their gazes to Krtsador, who now kneels in front of his throne. 

He starts to rise, but is pushed back down by the gunsels above him. “My son,” he says, his voice hopeful. 

“Locanson,” Gral whispers.

Locanson stares at Krtsador. “Don’t call me that,” he says quietly. Dangerously. “I think I’m suddenly about to be orphaned again,” he continues.

Krtsador tries to rise again, his damaged knees failing him. “Why?” he asks, a wheedling quality entering his voice. “I made you. I made you rich beyond your wildest dreams.”

“Yeah, well you neglected to tell me about your new project. One that could have set us up for life.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Project Xerus.”

Sorentin looks at Meglann, who keeps her calm. She ignores his narrowed eyes. 

Krtsador reaches down and pulls an object from around his adoptive father’s neck. He snatches the chain, breaking it. 

He looks at the small device on the end of the remnants of the chain, then at Krtsador. 

“I bet I’m going to find when I use this to open your files that you’ve cut me out of a lot of deals, _Pops_ ,” he says, his voice dripping with contempt.

Krtsador clinches his teeth, then rises, shaking off the two thugs. “So what? You little bastard. You were barely worth keeping alive when you murdered your father for me. Especially after you slept with my majordomo at the time, that treacherous Zeltron.”

Without another word, Locanson draws his blaster and fires. Meglann feels her bile rise as she sees the smoking hole between Krtsador’s eyes—eyes that are now fixing in death. 

She wonders how Ahsoka will take this news. 

Cyn nods and grins, as if reading her mind. “She’ll probably be pissed she didn’t get to do it,” she says. Both women shake their heads. _No. It’s not her way_.

They look up. Locanson is now looking at them. Without a word, he places the smoking muzzle of his blaster against Meglann’s forehead. She hears Kruvure’s growl, as well as Cyn’s indrawn breath. She feels the heat on her skin.

She starts to close her eyes, but stops herself. She looks directly at Locanson, focusing on the tattoos that cover his forehead.

* * *

Alyysina Faygan’ii, named for the protector of her world, looks up from her datapad. Her heart leaps as she feels a familiar trip in her resonance. The surgeon and master healer rises from her couch as the door opens. She folds herself into Kanyly’s arms, holding her tightly. She opens her own resonance as her lips find her presumptive heart-bond’s. They fall to the couch, their hands moving over each other. Sina moves her hand through Kanyly’s burnished golden hair. The Senator moves to reciprocate through Sina’s blue-with-brown highlights—the opposite of her cousin Dani’s brown-with-blue. Sina feels Kanyly’s nose move through her straight hair, the intake of breath sharp in her ears.

After a moment, Kanyly pushes her away. Sina slumps slightly, placing her forehead against Kanyly’s chest for a moment, then rises up, giving her a final kiss. She grins sheepishly, allowing her eyes to transition back to her usual amber. 

“I know, I know,” she says. “The bann-rites are explicit. Only intimacy through the resonance.” She looks down. “I guess we’ve only got a few days before we can’t see each other until the public ceremony.”

“Are you ready, Sina?” Kanyly asks quietly. 

“I’m more than ready, Kan,” she replies after a moment. “But I wonder if it’ll happen if we don’t find the Song’s Knot.”

Kanyly looks away, then into Sina’s amber eyes. “We just have to have faith, love. It’s kind of one of those things that make the world go around.”

Sina feels a spark of anger at the prime heart-bond. “Yeah? What am I supposed to have faith in? Boman? Danalaan? It seems like they both failed me.”

Kanyly’s skin flushes a deeper crimson as her eyes transition to the black. Sina sees the flash in her mind’s eye that every Zeltron sees when the _Modula_ comes over them.

“You might want to re-think your attitude, Sina. Boman has more than your vanity to think of—your position,” she spits. 

Sina explodes. “If that’s what you think this is about? About the wedding? It I could, I’d elope with you both. But that’s not our way. We express our love on the Land,” she manages. She turns away as she chokes. “I was out on the streets when the Empire came. I know what Boman means to that struggle. I know that you helped my Aunt open her Pour, so that we could remain free. It’s one of the reasons I love you both. How much you love this world. I just want to be with you both.” She starts to feel the wracking sobs edge into her voice, as her breaths come fast. She feels the heat fade from her anger and her complexion. 

The light of the _Modula_ remains with the strong emotions. Her eyes widen as she feels the grief doubled. 

Kanyly’s own eyes stream with tears. Sina settles her racing heart and pulls the older woman into her arms. They both wait as their sobs subside. 

Sina pulls away, her hand moving to Kanyly’s cheek. “I’m sorry, love,” she says. “I just want all of this to be over with. I’d be okay if he wasn’t the Zoetarch anymore. But I know what he means to our people and to—” She breaks off, unable to voice what they are a part of, even in these private, sacred precincts.

Kanyly touches her lips to Sina’s. “I know. We’re working on a solution.” She grins. “From several angles.”

Sina rolls her eyes. “Yeah. Alyys told me some of them. She’s being secretive about others. I’m beginning to wonder if the Dragon actually passed on some of his deviousness while fucking Alyys—when they created Dani.”

“I don’t know if ‘Dragon-ness’ is something that’s catching. If it was, our future Chalice might have given him some of her own, dear,” Kanyly says with a laugh. She kisses Sina again, then touches her hand to Sina’s heart, letting it rest there. She dares not move it, Sina knows, or else some of the physical expressions of their bonding may creep up. 

“So what’s her involvement in this? I know she decides who the Keeper is; she dictates how the Knot will be used by the Zoetarch, but I sense there’s something more.”

Kanyly nods. “I can’t say. I think that Boman knows, but it has something to do with the Clone Wars. Something even before he was chosen as the Zoetarch for his first term.”

Kanyly moves her hand away from Sina’s skin. “It has something to do with the properties of the mineral that gives the Knot its ability to focus the resonance. It’s only in the last few years that science has discovered the other properties of the mineral—properties that are more worldly. Especially to those looking for other rare minerals.”

“Do you think the Corellians can find Danalaan? She sounds like she may have gotten herself in over her head.”

“I think so. Either them or some of the other parties involved.”

Sina smiles, thinking of a powerful young warrior, who had helped her cousin stay alive during the recent Imperial incursion. _No_ , she thinks, _they saved each other_. Her core twitches as she thinks of the warrior’s beauty, as well as her strength. A beauty that Ahsoka would never acknowledge. She feels her resonance spike as she remembers that Festival and some of the associated sensations. Some shared with those two fighters.

Kanyly matches her smile and the wistful look. “Yeah. Me too, dear. I’m glad that we got to corrupt Fulcrum a little bit.”

Sina allows the resonance to calm. She chuffs impatiently. “Why the hell am I the one who isn’t allowed to work during the banns? I’m really ready to go back to work.”

Kanyly laughts. “Well, Boman and I have to stop working soon. We got permission to keep that at bay for as long as possible, since I’m the Senator and he’s the ruler, but I’m done until after the ceremony, and Boman’ll be through tomorrow.”

Sina nods. She touches Kanyly’s skin as she remembers one of the permitted activities of the banns. “So how about us doing a little bit of resonance-dancing?” she asks, her eyes growing hooded. 

After a moment, Kanyly nods and moves to the couch across the room. Soon, Sina feels the light build as she closes her eyes, as their resonances touch each other. Through the more intimate touches of the gifts, she can feel the powerful love moving over her heart—not just the sensations opening her body to the waves.

As she feels herself fall with the waves, she smiles. She feels Kanyly’s smile as well, as their hearts and their bodies flip merely from the touch of the resonance.

Sina thinks mainly of the heart—one of the triumvirate of the Zeltron soul, with the mind, and finally the body.

The most important of the three.

* * *

Bryne watches as Dav Kolan looks down at the young man lying asleep, his head in Dav’s lap. He brings his flask up to his lips, then passes it to Dav. Dav breaks his gaze from Dek as Bryne touches his shoulder with the flask. Dav nods, then takes the proffered flask and his own sip. 

Bryne smiles at him as Dav’s free hand idly moves through Dek’s dark locks. 

“Appreciate the save, Dav,” Bryne says quietly.

Kolan smiles tightly. “That’s one. Like I’ve said before, I’m kinda out of this whole galactic conflict business.” He reaches down and kisses Dek’s forehead. Dek stirs and murmurs softly. 

“Really?” Bryne asked. “I thought you’d be wanting to get a little back from the Empire, after they hung you out to dry.”

Dav sips from the flask again, then hands it back to its owner. Bryne takes one more sip, then caps it, setting it on the table. 

Dav is silent for several moments, then shakes his head quickly. “No. Not my way. I think after nearly a decade of war, I’m ready to be left alone. Just me and mine. This young man. A young woman who helps us. That’s it for me,” he finishes. 

“Sounds delightful,” Bryne says dryly. Dav’s eyes flash for an instant. Bryne looks down as soon as he says it, the regret moving through his mind.

Dav calms, then shakes his head. “I know. There are a lot of people who will have to fight. I just don’t know if I can risk everything. Not after what’s happened.”

Bryne nods. “I understand. Believe me I know. If one particular person said that she would go somewhere with me and pull the universe in after us, I might go. I’d never look back.”

Dav nods. “I don’t see that person ever doing that,” he says quietly. 

“Me neither. Plus, I’ve got other people who would fight. They’d say that they wouldn’t blame either of us, but I couldn’t let them do my fighting for me.”

Dav smirks. “Yeah. I’d heard you’re in some type of weird commune or something. Free love and all that,” he says. 

Bryne rolls his eyes. “Where the hell did you hear that? Not exactly known, bud,” he says sharply. 

“Same one that dropped a word in my ear that you might need your ass saved.”

Bryne grits his teeth. “I knew it couldn’t be a coincidence that you were on Raxus,” he says. He starts to get up. Dav puts his hand on Bryne’s, then squeezes it. 

“No. We were here for only one purpose. To gather some black market medical supplies that the same little birdie told us about.”

Bryne relaxes. “Why’re you interested in medical supplies?” he asks. 

Dav places his hand Dek’s cheek. “Little bit of an illicit medical practice in Wild Space. Based on Rattatak.

Bryne’s eyes widen slightly. “I’d heard rumors about some do-gooder performing medical miracles out there. Curing some serious genetic ills. Never thought you’d be involved.”

“Me neither,” comes Dav’s quick reply. He reaches down and kisses Dek on the lips. Bryne’s look softens as Dek returns the kiss, even in his exhausted slumber. 

“Seems like I might have a chance,” Dav whispers. “Maybe a chance to make some things right.”

Bryne reaches over and touches his cheek. After a brief moment, he brings his forehead to Dav’s. “Maybe so, vod,” he says, intentionally using that word. A word from both of their pasts. 

“So what happened to you, Covenant? Why were you trying to drink yourself to death on Takodana, that time that we made love?” Dav asks. “The loss of the Jedi?”

Bryne is silent as the memories cascade. He takes a deep breath, then releases it. “I was dead already,” he says quietly. “Twice over. My first family had been slaughtered by the Empire. Then my second was slaughtered as well, when I got involved—when I tried to make things right.” He looks away. “My life.”

To his credit, Dav doesn’t pry. He reaches up as Bryne had, and touches Bryne’s cheek, allowing his thumb over Bryne’s lips. 

“So now you’re back in it,” Dav remarks. There is no question. 

“Yeah. Discovered that my birth family needed me. As well as one that survived the cataclysm.” Bryne shakes his head. “So what did your little birdie tell you about us on Raxus?” he asks. 

“Told me it might be worth my while to be here. You and Nola were fumbling around and might need saving.” He smirks. “I don’t really give a shit about you, but Nola gave me a chance at a life away from the Empire.”

“You know who tipped you off?” Bryne asks. 

“No. But the call originated on Corellia. Any of your people unaccounted for?”

 _That’s the fifty thousand credit question_ , Bryne thinks. 

There is a noise from Dav’s lap. Bryne looks down into Dek’s dark eyes, just coming awake.

Dav looks down and smiles. “Sorry if we woke you, dear,” he says. 

Dek yawns and stretches. “No matter. Needed to get up. Kinda hard to sleep when there are two handsome men sitting on a couch with me. He turns his legs from the couch and stands. He grins at Bryne. “This one here said that you were mildly entertaining in bed,” he says. He leans over and kisses Bryne. 

Bryne is surprised only for a moment. He looks over at Dav who watches with a grin, then a shrug. 

As they break free, Dek moves over to Bryne’s other side. When he is seated, he reaches over and kisses Dav.

As the two pull closer to him and he feels his arousal grow, Bryne’s mind is only half on what is about to happen.

His mind is mostly on Corellia and Dav’s words about someone on his world.

* * *

Meglann holds her breath as the blaster muzzle rests against her forehead. She shifts her gaze to Locanson, who watches her without expression. She meets his gaze, but doesn’t see him. She allows the faces of her fellow Links; she sees the other Hells—the few that there are, as well. She forces the pictures in her mind to play on a loop—assuring those would be the last thing she sees, rather than the triumphant face of the information thug. Beside her, on either side, she feels all three of the other prisoners tense. A growl sounds from her left; she can’t tell who gives it. 

She feels Cyn’s hand move down to her shoulder, tightening in on it.

Sorentin Rhayme’s voice intrudes, the tone low and with a tiny bit of warmth against the steel. “I don’t think that you want to do that, dog-boy,” he says. “You may not be able to get us before Gral rips off your head and I shit down your neck.”

Locanson allows his lip to curl. “Even a grand general of strategery or whatever you call it can count, Rhayme. You’re outnumbered,” he says with satisfaction. “Plus, this young woman will have a breeze flowing through her brain.”

“Yeah, I ain’t as smart as you. But you might want to rethink your position. One, you’ve managed to get between you and your thugs’ weapons,” Gral adds. Locanson looks around, starts to move away. As he does, he feels something at his groin. 

“Two,” Sorentin says. “What you thought was a gesture of support for one about to die, is in reality one of her Mando doodads pointed at your play-pretties.” He grins. “Your brain. So don’t even think that you can move away. If I know Mandos—I’ve known a few—even slept with a few,” he adds, grinning at Cyn, “it’s locked on your balls.”

Meglann can see the servos turning in Locanson’s brain. She doesn’t move; Cyn’s hand is still tight on her shoulder. 

Finally, the muzzle moves away from her head, as Locanson gives her what he thinks is a charming smile. He holsters the blaster. The other thugs move in tighter. “I won’t test you, just yet. I can always kill you all later. Maybe something will show me more profit than just your corpses.” He reaches up with both hands and brings them to Meglann and Cyn’s cheeks.

Neither woman flinches as he strokes their skin. Meglann sees Cyn lean into his touch. She manages to copy her move. 

“Perhaps I can sell you all to the Empire,” he muses. 

Meglann rolls her eyes. “The Empire has nothing on us,” she says. “They might look a bit sideways on you murdering your daddy.”

“No, they’ll probably celebrate. Just as I will later. You’ve been asking about some Separatist, now possible Imperial tech. I could turn you in and watch all of you screaming your lives out on the receiving end of a torture droid’s tender touches.” He moves his hand to the side of Meglann’s head, the finger’s focusing on a spot in the middle of her skull. “That’s where the needle will enter your skull. It’ll be less pleasant than my blaster bolt.” He moves his hand back down to her cheek. “Unless you’d like to dance with me on his corpse, my dear,” he says smoothly. His index finger moves down to her lips. 

Meglann opens her mouth and touches the digit with her tongue. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Cyn’s eyebrow rise. 

Locanson’s voice cuts through her senses as he screams. The voice is punctuated by a crunching noise; she tastes the coppery-iron flavor of blood as she bites down.

She doesn’t flinch as he raises his other hand to strike her. 

Gral seizes the wrist as it swings down, then twists. Her three companions rise, facing the shooters, who are looking at each other in confusion. 

Meglann rises as well. She sees Sorentin staring at Locanson; the Mirialan returns his stare. 

“I don’t think you want to pass up the offer of the information that we have on the table,” Rhayme says. “We’ve got an easier way to get the tech, especially with our allies.”

Locanson continues to stare at him for several moments. He looks at Cyn. “If you really had something up your sleeve, so to speak, my dear, you would’ve used it. I think I’ll take my chances and work a little harder.” He looks up at his minions. “Kill them all,” he says. 

The thugs all quickly move to the area behind them, approaching closer. As Meglann feels the touch of a blaster again, she hears the whine of a holocomm start. 

“Hello, everybody,” a familiar voice says. “I don’t think you want to kill friends of Hondo, my young friend. It could be less helpful to our relationship.”

Meglann closes her eyes, wondering how she had suddenly become popular with thugs and pirates. 

_Maybe since you became one, twit_ , she thinks.

* * *

Captain Phyllida Enolo stares at her reflection in the mirror. She sees a woman approaching— _only approaching_ middle age looking back her, brown eyes gazing at her, eyes that have seen many things since she had left Alderaan as a Republic judicial officer, long before the war. She shakes her head, running her fingers through the cropped chestnut hair with its gray streaks. 

She sighs and turns away, lifting her tunic from the bed. The young officer looks at her expectantly, then pulls the sheet from his body. Phyllida closes her eyes for a moment, then jerks her head to the door. As the officer hastily retreats, clothing being pulled on, Phyllida hears a snicker from the chair across the cabin.

Pem Bouva, already dressed in her stormtrooper’s black service uniform, eyes her with amusement. Her stormtrooper commander stands up and walks over to her, her dark blue eyes mischievous. Phyllida rolls her eyes at the similar haircut and height.

The comm beeps, stopping Bouva. She retreats back to her seat near the desk. 

Phyllida sits at the desk and thumbs the activation button. A blonde woman in the white tunic of the ISB stares back at her. Her eyes, which Phyllida knows from their one in-person meeting, are a sharp blue-green, with what could charitably be termed a demented cast to them, look over Phyllida. Phyllida stares at the scientist’s high cheekbones and blonde hair, two attributes that give her the appearance of a porcelain doll. 

A porcelain doll filled with whatever unstable explosive compound you can think of.

“Hello, Captain,” Noar Zan Arbor says. “Are you on your way to Raxus?” Her eyes go flat. “Finally?”

Phyllida’s return gaze is even. She shows no fear at the woman’s reputation—one mostly fostered by that of her mother, a noted Separatist weapons developer. A woman whose reputation included being absolutely, unequivocally batshit crazy. 

“Yes. Our engineering malfunction has been corrected. We should be there in a day or two,” she replies evenly. 

“Good. You said in our last conversation that there is a certain Corellian who is possibly going to show up on Raxus?”

Phyllida nods, ignoring Pem’s look. “Yes. A ship that we had interaction with was related to the Foundation that she works for. We knew that she would probably be in our grill about it.”

Zan Arbor smiles. “Lord Panteer has also shown some interest in her. Something personal. It could be fatal for her. We’ll see. The Corellians have been poking around with one of my projects—the one that you’re going to be involved in finding a a crucial item. If you do have dealings with her, if she has survived whatever Panteer’s ‘interest’ might be, please find out what she knows. She works for Draq’ Bel Iblis. I’m sure he might have information that we need—especially about the engineer.”

“What do you want to do with the Corellian after we interrogate her?” Phyllida asks. “We think we’ve dealt with her before.”

“I don’t care. You can turn her over to your pet stormtrooper, if you like. I’m sure Bouva can find some entertainment from her,” Zan Arbor says. Phyllida manages to keep the smirk off of her face at Bouva’s expression. “Or you can let Panteer know. I don’t care. Just get me the information on where Nath might be,” Zan Arbor finishes. She clicks off. 

“So, are you going to tell Rae that we’re going to torture her friend to death?” Pem asks. 

Phyllida is silent, remembering the dinner party a couple of weeks back. She had enjoyed Nola Vorserrie’s company, even Bouva had. 

“I don’t think we’re going to do that. I think I’m going to let Rae work things out with her. I still think it could be valuable to have someone with connections to both Alderaan and Corellia.” She grins. “For when I’m an Admiral.”

Bouva makes no attempt to stifle her eyeroll. “What about Panteer? You had dealings with him during the Clone War, right?” Bouva asks. 

“Yeah. I think we’ll let him find out about Nola from someone else. Might be good to see him off balance.”

“He seems to be interested in this missing engineer,” Bouva says. “More interested than Zan Arbor.”

Phyllida nods. “Yeah. I think there might be something else going on there. We’ll watch and see if there’s something we can exploit.”

“I like the way you think, dear,” Bouva says. 

Phyllida nods, then smiles. “Captain Dear, to you.”

Bouva shares her smile, then grows serious. “What about Ensign Kozume? According to policy, she should’ve been executed days ago. She has racked up three demerits. Why is the appeal taking so long?”

Phyllida nods. “It’s not,” she replies bluntly. She ignores Pem’s look. “I know. She hesitated at a critical moment. Two, actually. She should’ve fired on that ship, even if it was proven to be a medical refugee ship. Plus, she was insubordinate and disrespectful to you. I think that we might be able to use her, though. She has skills other than being a gunnery officer. Skills and connections from her culture. Things that we can use for the future.”

Bouva nods, unconvinced. “You know that Nola will probably be looking into that. With the Dragon’s influence. As the psychopath said, that ship was connected to her Foundation of do-gooders.”

“We’ll worry about that when it comes to it. Speaking of which, were you able to get the ‘protection funds’ from that ship’s captain?”

Pem nods, smiling. “It seems to be on the way. Nola might be able to speed that along.”

“See to it,” Phyllida says. She looks away. “Send Commander Sloane to me. I need to try to rebuild the relationship. She’s a good officer.”

Bouva places her cap on her head, then salutes as she departs. Phyllida Enolo turns back to hyperspace, thinking of futures—some set in stone, some as shifting as the stars.


	7. That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The afflicted, the heartsick, the blaster party, the dance party, and the idiots.

Bryne runs his fingers through Nola’s cropped hair. She stirs, but doesn’t waken. He looks down at the bulky bandage on her left shoulder. Dek had made up the concoction of hyperbacta that her system could take. It would be an hour or less before the sedative that had accompanied the medicine wears off. He looks down at her hand with its angled little finger. Dek had included the hyperbacta and the electrical current that moves through her shoulder, but he was less optimistic about that injury. 

Bryne smiles as he thinks of the two men who had left the shuttle as soon as they had returned to Raxus, changing docking bays as a precaution. The smile is for the tenderness that Dav had shown Dek in the interlude in the small bunkroom. 

He doesn’t begrudge the ex-ISB agent any peace that he can seize. As they had left to make their way back to Rattatak, Dav had embraced him. “I know,” he had said, “it’s only a matter of time before I’m drawn back in.” 

Bryne had touched his cheek. “I’ll try to keep you out of it, Dav,” he had said. 

“I know that you will, Bryne. But I might be willing to help a tiny bit. I’ll be picky, though.” He looked at Dek with affection. “Dek said you were actually fairly good in the sack—even more than mildly entertaining.” His expression had grown serious. “Nothing that’ll risk him,” he finished with a warning tone. 

Dek kissed him, then turned to Bryne. “I’ll decide what risks I take, bud.”

Yelena Dao walks into cabin. She is dressed casually in cargo pants and a tank top. Her rifle is broken down in a small case; she sets the case on the floor. 

“I’m gone, Bryne,” she says. “Got to figure out what to do on Fondor, now that Nola’s buddy is the Moff there.”

“What does Yosta say?” Bryne asks, naming Yelena’s grandmother, the Comptroller of the Dao-Aspeff shipyards.

“She’s worried. Panteer has already been making noises about Imperializing the Yards; we may not be able to limit ourselves to repairing and refurbishing ships—something we’re damned good at—known the galaxy over for. We may have to start production again.”

She shakes her head. Bryne can see the love that the young woman has for her world on her face, as well as the worry. He stands up slowly, ensuring that Nola remains asleep. Yelena shakes her head, sending the thoughts of her world’s future struggles away. She pulls him into her arms, holding him tightly.

Bryne relaxes as she kisses his cheek, then moves her mouth to his collarbone, just visible under his shirt. He feels a mischievous grin against his chest. 

“Sorry I didn’t get to rock you and Nola’s world,” she says. “Of course, you seemed to do okay.”

He grins against the bare skin of her skull. “Not bad. I felt like I had to show Dav how to actually do the rocking.”

She rolls her eyes, then softens her expression as she moves her lips to his. After they break away, she moves her face down to Nola’s. She tenderly kisses her lips, then her forehead. 

He closes his eyes as he is left alone with Nola. He takes a deep breath as he thinks of another added world that the Empire is moving in on. Corellia had begun to restrict emigration for those trying to leave; the Imperial Viceroy was determined to increase production. He wonders if his world will be able to preserve its beauty, outside of the industrial cities. The Corellians of the past had made it a priority to use land in a way that would keep them from turning into Coruscant, Fondor, or Ganthel.

So far, there had been no intrusion into those green spaces, especially the sacred Shields, the fiefdoms of the Covenants that protect the capital city. 

“So, I would’ve been okay if you’d stripped down and went at it on the bed,” comes an acerbic voice from that bed.

He smiles and looks into Nola’s now open brown eyes. “Didn’t want to wake you, No-no. You would’ve probably strained something when you joined in,” he says. 

Nola’s long right arm reaches up and seizes his goatee, pulling him down to her. She kisses him as if she is taking air from him. 

As if she is proving to herself that she’s alive. 

At that moment, the small unit on top of the bulky bandage on her shoulder dings once, then flashes green. She closes her eyes, then allows him to rest his forehead against hers. She shoves him away with her good arm and pulls the cover from her body. She swings her legs down, but hesitates before standing. She looks at him expectantly.

He stares back at her. 

She rolls her eyes, then chuffs impatiently. “Come on, stud,” she says. “I need your help to change to a less bulky bandage. So that I can go talk to the Imps.” She looks down. “To Rae.”

He sits down gingerly beside her. “I’m not so sure I’m ready for you to go talk to her,” he says. “Especially when you’re injured.”

Without a word, she moves her right arm over to the bandage and starts to lift it off. She struggles a bit with the tape. Bryne can see the pain on her face as she tries to pull it from her skin. She looks at him through the pain with narrowed eyes. 

Finally he throws his hands up in the air. He reaches over to the small box that Dek had left them—with strict instructions—and pulls out a smaller bandage, already soaked in the special solution. His deft hands make quick work; they are gentle in their touch as he pulls the bandage off. His fingers play gently over the wound as he examines it. The wound is closed and healing. He notices that Nola doesn’t try to move the arm very much; the range of motion and internal healing needs more time.

He quickly covers it with the smaller bandage and attaches the power pack, activating it. He can see the relaxation on her face as the device sends the waves of power to the hyperbacta, stimulating it and easing her pain. 

He doesn’t even look at the finger. The small glove and splint will protect it as the hyperbacta tries to work on the damaged joint. 

She looks at it, though. He sees a mournful look in her eyes as she stares at the angled finger. He reaches down and gently kisses the digit. “It’s okay, Last Word. As several people told me when I almost lost this one,” he says, holding up his left ring finger, “you don’t need that finger for anything.” He grins. “In fact, I think you told me that, as well.”

She grins, then takes his hand in hers. She kisses the scar below the beskar ring. She lowers it gently.

“Come on,” she says. “I need a shower. I heard Dek say both bandages and devices are waterproof.” She rolls her eyes at Bryne’s smirk. “Yes, adolescent. You can help.”

With that help, she finishes cleaning quickly, then rests her back against him, allowing him to hold her up. 

“Ahsoka was right,” she whispers. “You’re the perfect gentleman when a girl’s injured and in a shower.”

He gently runs his nose through her hair, or at least some of it that he can reach, at the base of her neck, on his tiptoes. “I’d rather not have to help you, unless it’s not actually needed.” He grins against her head. “I’d rather be taking recreational showers with either or both of y’all.”

Bryne falls silent as Nola rests against him. “I’m serious, Nola. I don’t really want you going to the _Resurgent_ when it gets here. You didn’t exactly leave on good terms with Rae.”

She lifts her right hand and begins to move its fingers gently on his forearms, wrapped around her belly. “I know. But this is my part of this whole thing. We need to know if it’s a coincidence that she’s here. Not too many ImpStars pay visits to Raxus.”

He moves his face down to the skin of her back, centered around her spine. He feels her intake of breath as he plays his lips over the skin. He stops, realizing that this might be against doctor’s orders.

“Okay,” he finally says. “But be careful. I know your feelings about Rae are complicated.” He looks down. “There’s a datapacket from Draq’. An added complication. Something about saving a young officer scheduled for execution. She may hold the key to another aspect of this whole caper.”

“Yeah. I remember. Rae was angry about the sentence. She felt like the gunner did the right thing; it was something she would’ve done.”

Bryne is silent. “Not exactly modeling proper Imperial behaviors,” he says quietly. “Especially what you told me about her Captain, Enolo and her pet stormtrooper.”

“Yeah. Like I said on Alderaan. There’s a lot of conflict in Rae. She’s a great believer in Order; she felt like the Republic and its corruption let her sister down. But she has some of the innate goodness that you told me about in Jana. I just don’t know how it could go for her.”

He nods. “I know, love. You may have to let her go. You may not be able to turn her without risking your own life, or hers.” He turns her around in his arms, allowing the water to play over her back and shoulder. He rests his head against her chest. She’s not quite tall enough to rest her chin on his head, but it’s close.

“I’ll be here for you, No-no,” he whispers. “So will all of us.”

She is quiet as he reaches over and turns the water off. “Come on. The ImpStar hasn’t gotten here yet. You can sleep a bit more, then we need to figure out an angle about the officer, in addition to trying to figure out what they know, if anything.”

Later, as he holds her asleep in his arms, he thinks about what Dav had revealed. His own mind wrestles with the problem of someone on Corellia, for good or ill, leaking information.

* * *

Rae Sloane stops with military precision in front of Phyllida Enolo’s desk, her feet at a precise 45 degree angle, her cap placed just so under her arm. Her eyes are placed on the portrait of her sister’s ship. 

“At ease, Rae,” Phyllida says. Rae moves to parade rest, but her eyes remain fixed on the portrait. For about the five millionth time since she had joined the Imperial Navy, she wonders what her sister—the young woman who had led that ship to glory and its vaunted reputation over Coruscant—would think of the Navy that her little sister serves. 

She starts as she realizes that Enolo has risen and stands next to her. The older woman reaches up and places her palm on Rae’s cheek, drawing her eyes to Phyllida’s. As she does, Rae’s mind focuses on another set of dark eyes. The young gunnery officer’s, Edan Kozume’s stare at her as she is sentenced by the flat voice of the auto-tribunal. Kozume had been mostly nonchalant, but Rae could see the betrayal and a tiny bit of fear in her eyes as she had been led to the brig, her uniform tunic stripped from her.

“You’re seeing Kozume aren’t you?” Enolo asks quietly.

Rae doesn’t reply. 

“I know you are, Rae,” her Captain continues. “She was a promising officer. She was on her way to being a good one. I was looking forward to pinning her rank plaque on after she completed that promotional program. But she had flaws. Flaws that came to the forefront when she refused an order. When she later was disrespectful to Pem and her department head. It goes against Order.”

 _Order_. The one thing that keeps Rae as an obedient Imperial officer. Order, not the chaos of the Republic in its final years. When Jana and millions of others had died, but not in vain. Rae finally speaks. “I had already identified that ship as a licensed refugee—a medical ship. Her department head still ordered it to be fired on. In a sense he disobeyed my orders.”

“He says he never got the stand down orders from the system. An unfortunate glitch,” Enolo replies. She pulls Rae over to the couch, then sits next to her. “Kozume was showing signs of independent thought—something the Empire doesn’t prize in its officers. Unquestioned obedience is paramount.”

“You seem to prize it in me. You don’t mind when I question your orders,” Rae replies. 

One side of Enolo’s lips quirk upward. “Yes. But you do it respectfully, and when you do it, you’ve proven yourself with your service that you have a keen mind. You’ll be a fine Star Destroyer captain someday.”

Rae manages to keep her expression even at the seemingly opposing statements. 

“But enough about Kozume. She will die; it’s only a matter of time before the Sector Admiral dispenses with the auto appeal. You were passionate in her defense—you and Major Dua. But it’s time to let go.” There is a warning tone in her even voice. 

“Speaking of Corellians, your little friend—Vorserrie was seen on Raxus Secundus. There’s some evidence that she was attacked, then she disappeared.”

Rae feels her heart twist, before forcing her mind to think of Nola’s actions on the Hutt world. She hears her harsh, angry words, before turning away from her. _“You used me. You used our friendship—or at least what I thought was a friendship. If I had evidence, I’d put your ass in jail.”_

“I’m in contact with Deputy Director Zan Arbor of weapons research. She’s interested in whatever I can find out about what Draq’ Bel Iblis’s people are doing, especially with the project we’re becoming a part of. There are other parties interested in Nola as well.

“We should be at Raxus within the hour, but we’ve only got about ten hours. After that we’re being diverted to Imperial Testing Zone 7-Besh. You’ll go out and find Vorserrie. You can either arrest her and bring her here for a date with an interrogation droid, or you can cultivate the friendship again. Your choice. But find out what she’s up to and interested in.”

She touches Rae’s cheek again. “It’ll be good that you’re off the ship for awhile. You’re a damned good officer, Rae. I’d hate for this episode to reflect badly on you. The appeal hold will be lifted soon. Maybe in a few hours. I think it’ll be better if you’re not standing on that hangar deck when she dies.”

Rae starts to open her mouth. Enolo holds up her hand. “No, Rae. Dua will be here to be her advocate. I need you to do as you’re told.”

Rae Sloane is able to rise and make her respects to her Captain. As she exits the room, she makes a deliberate turn towards the holding cells.

To say goodbye to Edan Kozume. She also wonders if she will be saying goodbye to her humanity. All in the name of Order.

As the cell door opens, she sees her sister looking at her from the depths of time. 

For the five millionth and one time.

* * *

Locanson stares at Hondo’s image for several seconds. After that pause, he shakes his head. “You should’ve thought about that when your friends here came and interfered.” He looks at Sorentin and Gral. “Especially these two.” He moves further out of the line of fire and nods at the guards. 

Meglann tenses herself, waiting for the crash of blasterfire to slam in her body. A morbid part of her thinks that with so many blasters, there will be very little left of her or the others. Not even enough to send home to Alderaan. She shakes her head of the thoughts. _I made my choice_.

She straightens. Cyn’s hand seeks hers next to her. She turns and gives a look of regret. She is about to reach over and kiss the bartender when the blasters come up to the level. 

She is about to close her eyes when she sees that Rhayme and Kruvure are staring at the thugs defiantly. She forces her eyes to stay open, then shoves the last bit of fear from her mind and body. As she does, she catches a glimpse of a tall figure outside.

Suddenly, not even a tiny bit of fear remains. She sees the thug’s fingers tighten on the triggers. She braces herself again, not knowing what the figure’s play is. At the last microsecond, she sees it.

The muzzles of the blasters move, just as the triggers are pulled. The crash of blasterfire cuts through her hearing. 

There is no pain, only the smell of ozone as the minions hit the deck, their bodies suddenly with extra smoking orifices.

“Cover!” she screams. The four of them split off in pairs. As she hits the fake marble floors, she realizes that Hondo’s holocomm is still activated. He watches calmly—too calmly for Meglann’s taste as the remaining thugs move towards them. Meglann figures that there are still about a dozen left that had managed not to get slaughtered in the circle-jerk. She grins to herself. _Important safety tip_ , she thinks. _If you’re in a firing squad, don’t do it in the round._

Meglann tries to find the tall figure again, but has troubles of her own as two of the thugs advance on she and Cyn, who have rolled to the right. Her hand falls on a discarded blaster, but realizes that it is encumbered. 

Cyn gives her a dark look as they both yank on the blaster. They manage to twist it together and send a bolt into the head of a Abednedo. Meglann blows her a kiss as she yanks the weapon away, winning the tug-of-war. 

_Twit_ , Cyn mouths. She rolls away to another corpse. Meglann twists around then rolls, moving her back against Cyn’s for a full cone of fire. As she does, she realizes that blaster fire is flying into the thugs from behind the ones that she faces. 

An unaccountable warmth flows to certain parts—parts that she didn’t think usually worked while in a fight for her life.

Usually only afterwards with all of the pent-up, excess emotion. She sees Cyn’s eyes widen, in a suddenly flushed face. 

Meglann sees that the thugs facing her have all fallen. She shifts back to the front to add her blaster to her other three companions. She sees the half-dozen or so thugs still advancing on them, firing at the other threat. 

As one, the six are lifted from their feet, their expressions all a mixture of surprise, then terror as they suddenly fly backwards at great speed. 

There is silence as they are slammed with an unseen force into the far wall. All of them sag as one to the floor, the fight suddenly the last thing on their minds. 

The four of them rise, looking at one another. Meglann realizes that she is the only one who had caught a glimpse of the facilitator of their self-rescue.

She rolls her eyes at her inner thoughts—thoughts that would never admit that she was in trouble. 

Much like several others that she knows. At least two or three other young women and one young man, of who she is the youngest. 

She is brought back to the clear and present danger by a burst of blaster fire. She realizes in a split second that it is aimed directly at her. 

She feels a solid hip touch hers, knocking her to the ground. The owner of the hip holds both hands in front of her, her blue eyes powerful in their concentration. 

The bolt stops for a half-second; it remains at her joined hands, before speeding backwards. 

There is a scream as the bolt connects near Krtsador’s throne. Meglann grimaces involuntarily as the bolt shatters the blaster. 

As well as the hand holding it.

Locanson clutches the location of the pain, the wailing rising in pitch and volume, until a blue concentric ring touches him from behind Meglann and the other four. 

The warmth rises in her as well. She first looks at the other three, checking them for wounds. Cyn’s eyes are still unfocused as she slumps to her knees, a by-product of her initial fall from her jetpack flight. Meglann is next to her in a moment, but Cyn waves her away. “I’m okay,” she manages. “Nothing that a little dinner and a beautiful pilot kissing it and making it better won’t heal.”

Meglann feels an eyeroll from behind her mirroring hers. “Is there something about Handmaidens and inappropriate flirting?” Ahsoka asks, moving over to them. 

Meglann rises and pulls her into arms, dispensing with the usual leaping hug from either of them. 

Cyn looks up. “Well, I tried it on you, if you recall, turd,” she says. “Instead you fell asleep on me.”

“I was bored,” comes Fulcrum’s reply. Her eyes lock on the two walking up to them. “Somehow, I know, in my heart of hearts, this is all of your fault, Sorentin,” she says. 

He starts to open his mouth, but thinks better at her look. 

Ahsoka turns to where the extra blaster fire had come from. Meglann suddenly figures out where the warmth in her core had come from. 

Several Zeltrons and a couple of humans step out. One, a tall woman with dark skin—maybe even taller than Nola—looks at Locanson’s unconscious figure with disgust.

One Zeltron, a man of medium height, walks up to them, holstering his blaster. Ahsoka gazes at him; she and Meglann can see a certain familiarity in his features. 

Ahsoka shakes her head. “I wondered why my nethers were all atwitter while I was fighting. That usually doesn’t happen.”

Meglann pulls in tighter to her, closing her eyes at the familiar, slightly cooler skin of Ahsoka’s arm.

* * *

The young woman feels something like silk against her face as a tiny sliver of light moves its way into her consciousness. She takes a deep breath, trying to identify the myriad of smells, of the several layers. 

The top level is a strong, but not overpowering lavender scent that sparks a memory. A memory of dancing, while trying to survey the rest of the location. 

She gags at the next level of smells. Smells of vomit and urine, close by, but not where she lies. She realizes that she is lying on the ground—a permacrete floor under her chin. She coldness of the floor activates more of her brain, albeit with a great deal of fog throughout the lobes inside of her skull. A skull that seems to be way more constricting that it should be. 

She manages to lift her head from the floor. As she does, a name peaks through the gauze. 

_Dani._

_Daaineran._

_Daaineran Chaldea._

_Faygan._

Another moment and she realizes that the remembered name is her own. 

Dani rests her head back on the floor, hoping that the pounding bass line that suddenly accompanies her thoughts will lessen. As she does, she concentrates on the contrasting softness against the front of her face, rather than the hardness of the floor against her cheek. 

She opens her eyes, a gold light filling her vision. A light that calms; she realizes that she lies against gold silk.

Gold silk covering what appears to be, in her expert experience, a female ass. Gold silk that she had picked out for the owner of the ass, as opposed to the gray-green gaberwool that Andressa Divo had wanted to wear, along with the armor and a blaster.

Dani had managed to convince Divo that she could keep the blaster, at least concealed in the tight silk jumpsuit. 

Dani is inordinately proud of herself as the data continues to stream through her brain. She raises her head again, this time looking down at herself. Her own dark blue halter and shorts combination is still intact, the very picture of a Coruscanti party girl. 

A picture that Divo still needed to work on. _Well, at least I apparently got her to dance_ , she thinks. 

Her mind rewinds to those moments on the dance floor. “What the hell are we looking for again?” she whispered in the taller woman’s ear as Divo had tightened her arms around Dani’s back. The conversation was helped by the fact that a rare slow song had come on. 

Apparently the high-classed establishment had decided that the beings in various stages of undress on the platforms around the edges of the dance floor needed a slight break from the bumping and grinding.

“A Chadra-Fan known as Grotton,” Divo had whispered. “He’s an informant that told me he had information about Duel’s last known whereabouts.”

“You know what he looks likes?” Dani asked. 

“No. I’ve only dealt with him on a comm; I inherited him from another local cop,” Divo replied.

“Well, maybe we need to do what one should always do in a bar,” Dani said.

“Ask the bartender,” they said in unison.

Dani’s eyes narrowed at the fierce expression of the bartender when Grotton’s name was mentioned. He jerked his head to a door in the universal ‘follow me’ gesture. 

After a moment of staring at one another, both officers had followed. As their eyes had adjusted to the light, they could just make out a tall human woman, her dark skin exposed and glistening with oil. Their eyes are drawn to the tiny figure sitting next to her. 

A small Chadra-Fan. 

“So, I guess that I’ve attracted some unwanted attention,” he mused. 

“Just looking for some information,” Dani replied smoothly, stifling Divo’s announcement of officialdom. 

“Don’t have any of that here, sweet-cheeks,” he replied. “Especially when you’re asking about someone who’s not exactly welcome here.” His small eyes wandered over both of their forms, then looked up at the dancer next to him. 

There was something familiar about her. Dani focused on her. She appeared to be in her late thirties or slightly older, but still strong and lithe.

“So,” the Chadra-Fan said. “You have two choices. You can either get the hell out of my club, or you can both audition. I think I could use a Zeltron on one of the light stages.” He looked at Divo. “Hmm. Very strong. Maybe a double feature.”

Dani shot a look at Divo, shaking her head at the rising anger.

“We might audition later,” she said, “but we might put all your other talent to shame. I just need one question answered. A question about the Ardalen system.”

The room’s silence was deafening. The Chadra-Fan recoils in his seat. The woman only allowed her eyes to widen, but tenses.

Their reaction was nothing compared to Divo’s; she looked down at Dani with growing anger. “What the hell, Faygan?” she spit out, “we’re here to find my informant.”

Dani ignored her, her eye focused on the owner’s hand. More on what the tiny hand held. 

She started to shove Divo out of the way, just before blue-circled darkness overwhelmed her.

Dani comes back to the present. She tries to bring her hands up, to wake Divo. She realizes that they are bound behind her with tightly knotted cloth. She smiles to herself, thinking of her opponents’ mistakes. Her hands move to the back of the spangly belt of her shorts.

She taps Divo’s ass with her forehead as she works. There is no response. She shakes her head, then places her lips on the woman’s right cheek. She grins and then bites down.

With a yelp, Divo jumps up, suddenly awake and alert. 

Dani probably should’ve left her unconscious. 

“Goddamnit, Faygan! What’re you up to? You deceived me. I’m going to see you in Kessel,” she yells.

 _Great_ , Dani thinks. _Typical Imperial mindset. Starts with the threats. Nowhere to go but down_.

She tunes Divo out as her hands find what she was looking for. She grasps the handle in the top of the leather and pulls upwards.

* * *

Danalaan looks suspiciously as Rik’s new Rodian friend grasps her hand. Chido’s large, black eyes are expressionless. She hasn’t met many of his species, but in addition to the suspicion, there is a great deal of aesthetic appreciation for what appears to be an entire sector of stars in his bulbous eyes. 

The appreciation fades as his finger strokes across her palm in the handshake. She pulls her own hand away from his grasp, her hand starting to form a fist as her mother had taught her, from a time that she had just started walking.

Rik’s eyes locks with hers. He gives a tiny shake of his head. She hopes that her expression promises retribution. 

Chihdo is apparently lacking in any form of self-awareness as he stares at them both. 

“So,” Danalaan says nonchalantly. “Rik said that you were involved in this whole caper back in the day.”

Chihdo nods. “Yes. My subclan leader owed one of the parties for some help he had given. I drew the short straw and wound up with him.”

“Him?” Rik asks. “Between the Diktat and the Guildmaster—” He stops. 

“Yeah. My contact was contracted by a Zeltron woman. She hired him to find the thing,” Chihdo finishes. 

Both Danalaan and Rik look at one another. Both are apparently digesting this. A memory stirs in Danalaan’s mind. She looks back at Rik. His dark eyes are troubled with something. 

“So what was your contact’s part in this whole thing?” Duel asks. 

Chihdo is silent. For a moment, Danalaan isn’t sure that he heard. She thinks seriously about thumping one of his antennae, even though she isn’t as unsophisticated to think that this is his primary hearing organ. 

Just as she is considering other types of grievous bodily harm, she hears his otherworldy voice, one that she knows is the product of a different sort of speech organ than hers or even Rik’s. 

“He was supposed to be the Zeltron’s backup plan. She wasn’t exactly trusting of Shyla Merricope and the Corellians. Had something to do with a family relation. Or an in-law or something.”

“How did Lassa fit into this?”

“She didn’t, exactly. The Guildmaster—the Corellian’s smuggler puppet had hired the Blood Bone Order for the retrieval. Mal Dolros had accepted the contract.”

Danalaan shakes her head, trying to follow all of the threads of this damned thing. She looks at Duel. Her eyes narrow at his distant expression. He starts when he sees her staring at him. He looks away, unable to meet her gaze. 

She turns back to Chihdo. She smiles, then opens her resonance. Even though young, the gift of her people had manifested several years ago, signaling the beginnings of adulthood. 

True adulthood had come when she could master it. She allows her green eyes to move to the black. Through the quick mind-flash, she sees Duel and Chihdo both adjust their trousers. 

“Now boys. Do you think that everybody could stop with the bullshit and tell the truth about everything?”

Before either can speak, there is an earsplitting gonging and klaxon sound coming from the ship’s tannoy. 

“Action stations, action stations,” comes Sohlwey’s gravelly voice. “Security breach in the aft section.”

Both men stare at her, transfixed. She jerks her head to the hatch.


	8. Eight: It is the star to every wand'ring bark,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The carnage of Krtsador. Tuning out the ISB. A pirate’s life ain’t exactly working out. Dancing. A gentle Imperial touch.

Ahsoka takes a deep breath as she surveys the carnage of Krtsador’s audience chamber. She suppresses the memories associated with this room. Memories from a time when she was even more of a shiny at the whole intergalactic spy game than she is now. 

The warmth that she had been feeling since early in her intervention—she would allow Meglann refrain from calling it a rescue—increases. Accompanying the warmth is a slight pain—pain from missing one who usually provides the same warmth. 

She turns to the Zeltron male walking up to her and paints a smile on her face. She holds out her hand to him; the warmth brings back that same gap in her heart. She looks into his gray eyes, that, coupled with the wavy auburn-gold hair, increases the familiarity she had felt when she had caught a glimpse of him. 

“Jaten Gorlute,” he says. “We didn’t get a chance to meet after that whole thing on Felucia.”

She nods. “You’re kin to Lyndia?” she asks, unable to tell with the ever-youthful appearance what relationship he might be. _He could be her grandfather, for all I can tell_ , she thinks.

“My baby sister,” he replies with a dry grin. 

“I’m grateful to her for her help with some loved ones,” she says. She looks away, gathering herself at the sight of Bryne Covenant lying as if dead on Zeltros; she remembers the emotions and sensations as Lyndia helped her figure out what Force weirdness was afflicting him and what she could do to fix it. Nola had told her of the further healing she had given him, with her, Meglann, Lasssa, and Dani assisting. 

She feels the gaze of another standing next to Jaten—Iron as he is known. A very tall, dark-skinned human woman stares at her with something like hostility. She turns away and moves to the small group standing off from them, a group made up of two more human women and two Zeltron women. She shakes her head, filing that for later.

“My team is here to help. At least with the Torinsdattir,” he says. 

Ahsoka feels her eyebrow marking climb at the unfamiliar word. “What the hell is that?” she asks. “I’m familiar with some of your artifacts,” she starts, but stops at his smirk. “Not those,” she hastily says, remembering the application of some of those by and on Dani Faygan.

He shakes his head. “I can’t exactly tell you—the Chalice was explicit about that. But it’s related to your pirate and the other thing.”

Ahsoka narrows her eyes at the mention of Dani’s mother. Something tickles at the back of her neck, right under where her center lek joins her skull. The same tickle that she gets when she feels that someone might be playing her. She’d never gotten that feeling with Alyysina Faygan. She shakes her head at her thoughts. _She was involved with Draq’ Bel Iblis,_ she thinks.

 _Devious manipulation isn’t usually transferred through boinking, Runt_ , her Covenant-voice says in her mind. 

_Thanks, Bait, for that visual in my head, of the Dragon having sex_ , she snarks back.

 _Anytime_.

She shoves the emotions associated with that voice away as she fixes her gaze on Jaten. “You’re not exactly being forthcoming, Iron,” she says. 

“Yeah, you’re well known for being open and honest, _Fulcrum_ ,” the tall young woman says, a distinct hardness in her voice, especially on the last word. 

Jaten shoots a look at his teammate, then turns back to Ahsoka. “We can’t tell you,” he says flatly. “We’re here to help you.”

“On your terms,” Meglann says as she walks up. Ahsoka feels her arm touch hers as she stands close to her. She gives a brief grin; she sees Jaten share it, before allowing it to fade. 

“And that’s different from you, how?” another human member asks. 

Ahsoka places her hand on Meglann’s arm as the younger woman’s anger spikes. 

“Ahh, Gallatin. Still up to your old tricks again, aren’t you?” interjects a smooth voice—a voice also filled with pain. “You should be careful of his tongue, girl,” Locanson says as they turn to him.

He is kneeling on the ground, his mangled arm clutched to his abdomen. Cyn is attempting to apply some bacta to the injury, but it will take more than her first aid. 

“I’ve been the recipient of that mouth,” Locanson continues. “It’s quite skilled, but you have to be wary of the teeth.” He smiles at her, his eyes looking over her body. “You never got to experience what I can do with my tongue, dear, the last time you were here.”

Ahsoka rolls her eyes, remembering her retrieval of another datachip several years ago. There had been less clothing involved, but nothing more. Except for explosions and Imperial fleet troopers interrupting. “It’s why I knocked you out, dear,” she says. “I was pretty sure I’d be bored.”

His face grows angry, flushing olive-yellow. He starts to speak in a different language. Ahsoka’s heart twists as she recognizes the language, if not the words. She feels the words in a softer, higher pitched voice, against the naked skin of her stomach. 

Barriss Offee’s words had not been filled with such vitriol. _At least not then_ , she thinks. She closes her eyes at the memory.

There is the sound of skin on skin—a hard impact and a brief cry. She opens her eyes to see Locanson drop like a sack of wheat. Jaten rubs his fist, shaking it only for a brief second.

Ahsoka walks over and reaches inside the coat of his business suit. She pulls the small object that she had glimpsed him taking from his adoptive father’s corpse. Jaten’s assistant gives her a hard look, then starts towards her. 

“We could use that,” she says.

Ahsoka ignores her, then hands the key to Cyn, who grins and says,“Wonder if the Handmaidens will take me back now that I’m the new Queen of the information brokers.”

“I don’t know,” Meglann replies. “I wonder if there are bartending lessons on there.” Without a word, she pulls Cyn to her feet. Both young women turn and walk away. Ahsoka watches them with amusement. 

Her smile fades as her eyes fall on Krtsador’s body. She walks over to him and looks down at him. She kneels and reaches down, closing his eyes. Her own vision blurs for a moment.

She feels a warm hand on her shoulder. Jaten draws her up. The tall human’s expression is somewhat softer. Ahsoka allows him to touch her under her eyes, wiping the tiny amount of moisture away. 

“Your compassion does you credit, Fulcrum,” he says, “but Krtsador would’ve had your skin on his wall with all of the cheaper knockoff art. Just because you said ‘no’ to him. He wasn’t used to that.” He looks away. “I should know. I was here, undercover.

“I had to listen to his rantings about you and what you did.”

Ahsoka nods. “Come on. Let’s have a drink. I know a place. I’ll even buy,” she says. “Maybe after Meglann and Cyn get finished getting acquainted, we can find out where your thingy and my pirate have gone.”

* * *

As she works, Dani finds it easier to tune Andressa Divo out. Divo continues to berate her—using a mixture of Huttese and Basic. Dani idly thinks that the ISB agent’s command of Basic is rather limited when it comes to berating. She is surprised when Andressa does deviate from the parental to the scatological. 

_There_.

Dani wonders if Divo is even listening to herself as she pulls her hands free. She waits patiently, holding her separated bonds up. Divo’s eyes focus on her hands, clearly locking on the small punch knife she holds. 

“Where the hell did you have that?” Divo asks. 

Dani gives her best mysterious smile. “I’ll never tell, darling. Maybe you can frisk me sometime. I’ll tell you when you’re getting warmer.”

 _Never go with the mundane answer when you can flirt_ , she thinks. She grins at Divo’s flummoxed expression. _I got a million of ‘em. Maybe I should write a book_.

She turns as the door opens. The Chadra-Fan stands there, surrounded by a collection of larger minions.

Much larger. 

With only a look, Dani finishes slicing through Divo’s bonds and they jump apart, dodging the first volley of blasterfire. Blasterfire that no longer seems to be set on stun. 

They both manage to find cover. As Dani calculates the distance to the Chadra Fan, she sees Divo manage to take out one of the thugs who has gotten too close. 

Dani also sees another thug take aim at Divo’s head. In one smooth, quick movement, she reaches down to the top of her boot. An instant later, the thug is screaming, his arm pinned to the wall by something larger than a punch knife. 

Divo’s eyes are wide as she drops another thug with a precisely aimed bolt, fired at her blind side. “How many of those things am I going to have to find? You’re not wearing much.”

Dani merely smiles at her; the smile fades quickly as she sees four more thugs enter the room, clustering with the others in a wedge. Incongruously, the tall dancer enters behind them, now dressed in a robe. 

Divo catches Dani’s eye. “Any bright ideas, sweetums? Anything more dangerous than a knife hidden up in there?”

She is about to answer when her eye catches a glimpse of something. 

“Cover!” she yells. She opens her mouth and covers her ears.

Time stops, or rather moves in slow motion as the dancer, a look of concentration on her dark features, tosses a cylindrical object into the midst of the thugs. 

A large concentric blue ring erupts from the item in the middle of the scrum—much larger and more concentrated than the ones that had taken Dani and Andressa out.

There is silence. The Chadra-Fan turns and looks incredulously at his talent. She stares back at him with a calm expression. He regains his composure and lifts his own blaster. 

He gives a squeaking noise as Divo grabs his blaster with one hand and seizes the collar of his cheap suit with the other. Dani smirks as she hangs the small being on a coat hook. The expression fades as Divo starts to make adjustments on the blaster she holds. 

Dani is instantly aware of what Divo intends. She closes the distance to Divo and the club owner in a microsecond as her companion eyes one of the Chadra-Fan’s extremities with the now low-powered weapon. 

Dani looks at him and allows her resonance to open; her eyes transition to the black. A smile comes over his face. Divo looks at him and then her. She readjusts her blaster and holsters it. 

_Better a little bit of an involuntary orgasm than having his leg burned down to the bone_ , Dani thinks. She notices that Divo’s own breathing increases in speed as her face flushes. 

She wonders as she concentrates on her task, if she’ll someday have to kill Divo. She can only hope that the ISB agent will someday remember that she was trained as a peaceforcer on Coruscant; she can only hope Divo will someday regain the humanity that the ISB had sucked out of her. The honor that Dani knew that her father, Lieutenant Tan Divo, had possessed, even with the rigidity that had marked his service on Coruscant, from her one meeting with him before the war.

Dani wonders if she’ll lose some of her own basic decency as she fights the darkness. 

“So, bud,” she says conversationally, “what’s your story?”

The Chadra-Fan takes as deep a breath as the sensations allow. “Someone paid us to kill anyone that asked about the Ardalen system,” he says, a broad smile growing on his face.

“Who?” Divo asks, her eyes narrowing. 

“Don’t know,” he manages. “Came through several layers. My services are in demand among certain circles. At least six circles,” he manages with a somewhat demented giggle. 

Divo looks at her. “Meaning the six syndicates,” she says. “Has kind of a Hutt flavor to it. Maybe the Pykes—what’s left of them.”

“You took some care in not harming us until we broke free,” she says to the tiny thug.

He grins. “I decided to improvise. We could probably make some decent money selling you both to the Hutts or somebody.” He looks at Divo. “Although you’re a little on the hard-looking side.”

Dani sees Divo’s anger rise. “I think it’s time for a little blaster party,” she says. 

“Easy, Divo,” Dani says. “I think that we can use this scumbag. If you can’t, I’m sure I could.” She grins. “I’m probably a better judge of beauty than he is. I’d pay top credit for you.”

Divo shakes her head, her eyes rolling, but Dani sees a quick smile softening her features. _A tiny bit of humanity_ , she thinks.

“Okay,” Divo says. “I think I might have an open spot in my collection of scumbags.”

Dani nods as her eyes transition back to their normal purple. She sees the dancer’s eyes widen, as if with recognition, before settling into her calm expression.

“What’s your story, beautiful?” Dani asks. 

“Name’s Ladiana,” she says. “I got my own questions.”

Dani is about to reply when Andressa’s comm beeps. “Good. I typed in an information retrieval query about Ardalen,” she says. “Looks like another ISB agent might have something.”

She reads the text. “Not ISB. The Navy. They’re about to arrest a Corellian on Raxus Secundus. She’s asking a bit about Ardalen. As well as the Azdriel system.”

Dani’s blood runs cold at those words. 

Ladiana lifts her blaster and fires at Divo, dropping her with a stun bolt. Dani raises her fists. 

“Come on. I saw your reaction. We might be able to help whoever produced that expression,” Ladiana says.

“How—”

The dancer smiles. “I was raised by a Zeltron. I can read when someone means something to them.”

Dani looks down at Divo. “I’d rather not be the recipient of her anger, when she wakes up, dear,” she says. 

“Fine,” Ladiana says. “There are surveillance recorders here.”

Dani feels her eyebrow raise. “What do you mean—”

Her words are interrupted as Ladiana raises her blaster and points it at her. 

As she falls down the well of yet another spot of blaster-induced unconsciousness, Dani Faygan remembers something that her father had said.

_No good deed goes unpunished, darlin’._

There is darkness.

* * *

Delto Loganer pours himself a shot of the strange green liquor that the previous owner of the cabin had prized. He makes a face, wondering how the hell Tevraki whisky had gotten its reputation for luxury. 

He shakes his head, thinking he has more immediate problems than what his and Lassa’s drink choices were. He sighs and puts the glass down, still half-filled. 

The security breach had turned out to be nothing—nothing more than a false alarm. An alarm that had set everyone on board even more on edge. An edge directed at him as he told them to return to their duties.

He wonders how the hell he is going to get himself out of this mess. The idea of being a pirate captain had appealed to him, even back when he had watched Hondo Ohnaka fumble through it. 

There was more to being a captain than wallowing in the money from their takings. For one thing, he had done nothing to find anything even resembling work for his crew. He’d never thought that a great pirate captain had to figure out anything about how his crew would actually have to eat, that food wasn’t something that automatically appeared in their pantry. 

Or even that someone actually had to prepare it. 

He grits his teeth as he thinks about what he had promised the crew. Untold riches after they had found a certain item from the Clone Wars, an item that contained a rare and valuable mineral. 

An item that he had learned of from an information broker on Bothawui. One that wasn’t answering his calls now. He shakes his head, wondering how the hell Krtsador had learned about the item in question. One that had apparently triggered a race at the beginning of the war. A race that he could find no evidence of how it had concluded. Just that the item was still missing.

He rubs his hand over his forehead. He wonders how long he should wait until he tosses the Corellian, Duel, and his Zeltron girlfriend out of an airlock. Along with Lassa Rhayme. The Corellian had been the only person who had answered the DarkNet ad for information on Project Xerus.

 _Maybe not the Zeltron_ , he thinks. 

There is a knock at the hatch. Before can respond with a terse ‘go away’, the portal opens.

En Sohlwey stand in the open hatch. She walks in without waiting. “You’ve got a problem,” she says shortly. 

“I’ve got a problem, dear? How about ‘we’ve’ got a problem?” he asks dryly. 

“Well, you got voted in as Captain, ‘dear’,” she says, “might just be yours.”

“What is it? Plus, if I’m the Captain, why the hell can’t you wait until I say ‘come in’?”

“Well, I can wait for the niceties. I can also wait when the crew comes in and strings you up because you’ve cut food and water rations again. They might not bother with a vote. Your choice as cook might dangle next to you.”

“What about you?” he asks, his eyes narrowing. 

“I might be there leading them. Especially for the cook.”

He stares at her. She softens after a moment and walks over to him. She takes him in her arms. “There’s a call for you from the DarkNet server. Somebody called Discord wants to talk to you about Rhayme.”

He nods. She opens the channel. A huge, hulking figure stares at him, the features hidden. A deceptively soft voice comes over the pickup; a voice that sounds like a male of most humanoid species. 

“I want Lassa Rhayme,” the figure says. 

“Why?” Delto asks. 

“None of your business. Let’s just say that I’d like to see her screaming her life out on the end of my knife.”

Delto grins. “Ahh, so another fan of her sparkling wit and personality. How much?”

The figure names a sum. Delto is able to keep the surprise off of his face. His eyes play over the dashboard of the app as he sees a portion of that sum enter his payment account.

“Okay. Let me think on it,” he says. He stares at ‘Discord’. “That deposit is nonrefundable.” He gestures at Sohlwey, who kills the connection.

Delto grins at her. “That might keep us fed for awhile. Might also keep Duel alive awhile longer.” He touches her cheek. “Do you think you can find a decent cook?”

She smiles, then places her forehead against his. “Yeah. I know a guy.”

As Delto’s mouth plays over her skin, Sohlwey thinks about the ship and its crew. She thinks of a young Red Nikto, his bright intelligence that, in spite of her harsh words to Lassa, had always warmed her scoundrel’s hearts. 

She thinks of when she’ll see him again.

Not if.

* * *

Mal rises as the figure moves into the corner of the pleasure room. He stares at the hood and mask over his contact’s face. The figure gazes back at him through the eyeholes in the mask. After a moment, the figure removes the mask and pulls the hood down, revealing the smooth face of a teenaged human male. 

The man—no, the boy stares back at him defiantly, as if daring him to speak on his youth. Mal rolls his eyes, knowing how prickly youth can make a situation. He grins as he thinks of another prickly youth, specifically a slightly older Pantoran female version. He shakes his head at the thought of his Quartermaster, of what this caper might bring to her.

 _She’s ready_ , he thinks. He grins at the wide-eyed expression, quickly stifled of the teenager at the sheer amount of bare flesh on display, not to mention the various appetites being satiated in the immediate area. 

He reaches up and taps the youth on the forehead, bringing him back into focus. The young man stares at the effrontery of the pirate, then relaxes, looking at Mal expectantly. 

“So,” Mal starts. “What do I call you?”

“You can call me no one,” he says. “I’m only the Guildmaster’s agent. Let’s get down to business.”

Mal grins again and nods his head approvingly. He realizes that there is an object on the small end table, an object placed there so fast that Mal hadn’t seen the movement. He feels a tiny bit of tension from the couch behind him, but discounts it. 

He reaches down and touches the metal. His fingers close around it. He feels his eyebrows rise as the piece doesn’t budge immediately. He increases the strength in his hand, manages to move it.

He looks up at the teenager. For the first time since he had walked up and sat down, Mal examines his face. There is nothing remarkable about the contact—brown hair flopping over the brown eyes gazing at Mal expectantly. A wisp of a brown mustache and beard does nothing to conceal the open expression of the agent. 

“Yeah,” the agent says. “That’s what I thought when I first touched it. It’s dense as hell at least in its raw form. Lift your hand from it and touch it again.”

Mal does as instructed. He feels a warmth coursing through the nerves of his hand—but not a warmth from any raised temperature. All at once he can feel the sensations of the activities around him—just an inkling of the dozens of emotions born of those activities. It fades quickly, returning to the mere sensation of the heavy, immovable object. 

“That’s interesting,” he says dryly. 

“Yeah,” the young man says. “Kind of an understatement, pirate. That’s not what the other parties are experimenting with, though.”

 _Meaning the Seppies_ , Mal thinks. “So what is it? Never seen anything like it.”

“This little parlor trick is merely a way to find what you’re looking for. The Seppies are trying to get an element called cudolenium. It acts as an activating agent for another element, causing it to have some interesting gravimetric properties.”

“So how did you move it so fast? It’s heavier than it looks.”

The agent holds up a tiny device. “This can help move it. In its refined state, it seems to be much less dense—light even. This isn’t enough to refine.”

“So where do we find it? How do we find it?” Mal inquires.

“It’s extremely rare. The Seppies may be looking to figure out how to manufacture it. My sponsors want to get as much of it as they can, to keep it out of their hands.”

Mal feels the skepticism. He manages to suppress it from his expression, if not his words. “Yeah. So your benefactors are so altruistic. They’re not interested at all in those gravimetric properties, at all, are they.”

“Don’t know. Don’t care. I hadn’t heard that you asked so many questions when somebody was looking to pay you enough money to keep you from getting skinned alive by your crew, Dolros,” he says. 

Mal grits his teeth. “You might want to rephrase that, boy,” he says. “I don’t usually take guff from someone with your lack of ass to back up the guff.”

“You might want to, if you want to get paid. I may just be a boy, but the final decision is with me on whether the Guild hires your useless ass. We can find any scumbag pirate or freighter tramp to look for this.”

Mal allows himself to calm. “Yeah, but not with our skill. I know your precious Guildmaster has been looking into our background. You’re not going to find anyone with our skill or the ability to be discreet about our job.”

The young man doesn’t react. He pulls out a datachip. “Here’s information on where you might find it. Our information is that the Seps will be moving some of this as part of a standard shipment. Do what you do best.”

“So how will we recognize the stuff? I can’t go through that transport touching every piece of metal I find, testing to see if it gives me a hard-on.”

“Have someone read it to you, Dolros,” the agent says. “There’s another element that when it gets within a light year or two will react with it.” At that, he rises. Mal remains seated. He watches as the agent replaces his hood and mask. 

After he has left, Mal thinks about the jobs that he is having to take, in order to survive. This particular job is fraught with peril, between the Republic, the Separatists, and the Corellians. 

He feels the couch behind him rotate, along with his, until it faces his couch, forming an alcove. He smiles at the young woman sitting there. Lassa’s hands are playing over the very naked hip of one of the dancers, who is otherwise occupied in his Quartermaster’s lap. 

He gives the dancer a cursory look, only getting the impression of long legs, and dark skin. Her eyes lock on his; they strike him with their intelligence and life.

He shakes his head as Lassa pushes her away, sending her off with a slap on the ass. The dancer leaves his thoughts. “Well?” he asks. 

Lassa is quiet. He knows that she had been only half-occupied with the dancer’s attention. She buttons up her shirt, her eyes thoughtful.

“Could blow up in our face, Cap,” she says. “I hope you know what the hell you’re doing, taking this job without a vote.”

 _So do I, girl_ , he thinks. _So do I_.

* * *

Nola stops as the pain intensifies. She quickly turns into an alley, giving it a look. She rests her head against what she can see is a reasonably clean wall. She takes a deep breath, trying to reduce the throbbing in her left shoulder and hand. 

She sighs and reaches for the last resort. She slides her jacket off of her right shoulder and manages to reach inside the jacket with her right hand. She stares at the injector, cursing to herself. 

Nola shakes her head and activates the device. _Time to put aside childish things, No-no_ , she thinks. “There’s no candy for being a good girl,” she adds out loud.

She plunges the injector into her left bicep. Almost before the injector is emptied, the pain fades to a dull roar. She exhales and replaces the injector in her jacket. She is able to pull the jacket back over her. After another moment of rest, she turns to continue her trip to the center of the city, to the Imperial complex.

A tiny glimmer of fear cuts through her heart at what her eyes fall on.

Rae Sloane stands in the mouth of the alley; five stormtroopers stand behind her. One of them bears the red insignia of an officer on the shoulder, a gold device showing on the pauldron. 

Nola takes a deep breath, then allows a smile to flow over her features—a smile that quickly turns to a smirk. She opens her mouth to deliver the snark. 

“Save it,” Rae says, a tiny hint of a snarl in her voice. She gestures to two of the troopers, who break off from the rest and move towards Nola. 

Nola straightens and stares at them defiantly. She sees the stormtrooper officer give a tiny shake of the helmet. 

One trooper reaches behind her and pulls her blaster from her belt. The other seizes her left arm at the wrist. Nola is unsuccessful at keeping the scream from escaping her mouth. 

Rae is at her side immediately. She pushes the trooper out of the way, gently lifting Nola’s arm. She pulls the jacket sleeve off. Nola is conscious of the skin of her hand on her own—she realizes that Rae doesn’t wear gloves like she’s seen her wearing before with her uniform. She looks into Rae’s dark eyes and sees the glimpse of compassion in there. 

Rae touches the bandage on her shoulder, then stares at the mangled finger. “You need proper medical attention,” she says quietly. 

“Will that happen before or after the torture droid sees to me?” she lets slip without thinking. 

The moment passes as Rae’s eyes harden. Nola almost sobs, missing the soft look. 

“Do you need to be tortured for something, Nola? Something on your conscience, perhaps?” Rae asks. 

“I’m sure that you and your two bosses will find something very easily,” she replies. “At your little dinner parties where some of you discuss executing young women so casually.”

Rae’s eyes flash with anger. She glances at the other officer who has walked up. 

“You’ll find I’m creative like that, Stretch,” the officer says in the modulated, anonymous trooper’s voice. A voice with just a hint of familiarity. 

“How’s it going, Pem?” she asks, taking a shot at the officer’s identity.

“Not bad, Nola,” Commander Pem Bouva replies. “Pity we’re not relaxing and having dinner. But you seem to be sticking your cute little nose into Imperial business.”

“Well, maybe you should’ve thought about that before you went about firing on a medical ship that was one of my Foundation’s refugee ships.”

Bouva reaches up and pulls her helmet off. The dark blue eyes stare at her. “If you feel that strongly about it, you could look very good standing next to Ensign Kozume on our hangar deck when we shoot her.”

 _Well, at least she’s still alive_ , flashes through Nola’s mind. “Ahh. So that’s her name. Surprised she still actually has one, rather than just ‘prisoner so-and-so’.” Her eyes harden. “Or ‘corpse’,” she finishes.

Pem starts to speak, but stops at Rae’s look. Rae takes the binders from the trooper. She reaches up and touches Nola’s face, before lifting her hands. 

Nola feels the binders lock on her wrists. She realizes that Rae is taking care with her left arm. 

_Almost gentle_.


	9. Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting clearer. To some.

**The Past**

Lok Durd enters the ornate chamber on Serreno. The tall, stately figure keeps his back to him, staring out of the large windows. Durd walks up to the center of the room and bows from the waist. He waits for Dooku to acknowledge him.

And waits. 

He remains bowed, not wishing to test the science behind how well his ample flesh will hold up to the Count’s otherworldly lightning. The posture is not easy for him, based on the location of that extra flesh at his middle. 

Dooku finally turns and fixes his red-tinged gaze on his General. 

“Count Dooku—” Durd starts.

“Silence,” Dooku says. 

Durd obeys, his bowels turning to water at the tone. 

He waits. 

“I’ve been hearing some disturbing news from some of my other sources—particularly the Corellian ones.”

Durd’s eyes widen in confusion. “Uhh, I’m not sure—”

“Spare me the dissemination, General. I know who and what you are. I know about some of your side deals. My master and I both know. We’re willing to overlook your lining of your pockets, as long as you produce the results—the advanced weapons we desire.” His eyes bore into Durd. “You may be testing our patience with this one.”

Durd runs mentally runs down the list of his ‘side projects’. Especially those that might draw unwanted attention from the two Force users. He draws a blank. 

“I’m not sure I know what you mean, Count,” he says smoothly. “I’m currently concentrating only on your projects. Especially the Defoliator cannon—it is very promising.”

Dooku is quiet for a moment. He shifts one hand from behind his back, making Durd jump. 

The Separatist leader only unleashes a datapad, rather than his powerful lightning. He lifts the device from the nearby desk and stares at it. 

Durd attempts to control his breathing as Dooku peruses the text. 

“Project Xerus,” is all Dooku says. 

Durd’s eyes widen, but he calms. 

A tiny bit. He can feel a certain amount of excitement—the kind that he feels when someone else might be strangled or electrocuted by the man standing before him, waiting impatiently.

Durd puts on his most ingratiating smile—just one from his large arsenal of obsequiousness. “Ahh. That is a project that has borne no fruit yet, my Count,” he says smoothly, the lie rolling off of his tongue. As it does, he can only hope that he’s accomplished enough to pull the lie off around the ex-Jedi.

Dooku stares at him, his eyes unreadable. “What exactly is it, General?” he asks. “I’m hearing disturbing reports that other parties have been asking about it.”

“It’s a project looking into the possibility of using gravity wells to pull vessels from hyperspace,” Durd replies. “It may be years away from that fruition; it depends on a mineral that we’ve only found a small amount of.” He prepares to drop the blame-bomb. “This is actually a project that I’m just overseeing. It’s being championed by Dr. Zan Arbor.”

_There._

“Then if it’s only in its infancy, why are these other parties looking into it?” Dooku asks. “Commander Stane has been finding some connections, based on information from a Corellian source.” 

“I’m not sure,” Durd says, mustering as much perplexed innocence as he can.

Dooku’s eyes narrow. “Make it your priority, General. Dr. Zan Arbor has proven somewhat unstable in some of her other projects, but she does produce results. I don’t want our projects out in the open.” His lip curls. “Especially being used as bait for something else.” He starts to turn away. “Particularly if it involves a Hutt.”

Durd’s blood joins his bowels in turning to something other than what they were intended for as he turns to leave. 

He shoves past droids and the sentient species of the Confederacy. Within twenty minutes, he is back on his personal ship and leaving Dooku’s homeworld— a world so inundated with his power that it is named for his House. 

His mind flashes over multiple options; he considers the fact that Dooku knows that he has involved the Hutts in trying to advance his own agenda. Dooku rarely makes shots in the dark.

Jenna Zan Arbor is more than unstable; she is, as a human acquaintance had termed it, ‘a fucking engine room fire.’

He pulls out a small comm—one that isn’t exactly Confederacy issue. The holo function projects the image of a human woman in her late thirties or early forties—he can never tell with humans. Even across the light years, he can sense the air of straight menace and threat, especially looking into her dark, teardrop-shaped eyes, at the way that her muscled bare arms are crossed over her chest, the fingers centimeters away from a pair of matched blasters under her arms. Having met her in person, he knows that in person, she is able to assume the persona of a woman with the polished sheen of a porcelain doll. 

That persona had quickly disappeared with the garroting of one of those who had been fooled by it.

Ming Lardai, the senior enforcer for a certain Outer Rim businessman—one that both sides in the conflict had taken to courting one way or another, stares at him. 

“It seems to be working,” Durd says perfunctorily. “The Republic—or at least Corellia,” has taken the bait.”

He stops as he sees her eyebrow rise. “What?” he asks. 

One side of her mouth quirks upward, but the black orbs remain flat. “We actually haven’t been able to put anything out there about Arbor’s project. Still in the opening stages of getting someone in place to start the leaks.”

Durd sits back in his chair. Fortunately, the shuttle is piloted by a droid, so no one is there to actually recognize his confusion. _Is that upstart Zan Arbor a step ahead of me? Is there anything that can connect me to it, if it is taken?_

“What do you want me to do, General?” Lardai asks. 

“Let me check a few things. I’ve got an agent that’s highly placed in the Republic. I’ll see what I can find out.”

Lardai’s eyes narrow. “Don’t keep me waiting. Jabba’s given me some leeway, but I don’t really have a lot of time to screw around. Jabba is trusting you to make sure this thing comes out to his satisfaction.” She clicks off the comm. He sits, silent, as he tries to reel in the thoughts of what he has set in motion.

If he’s actually set something in motion. If he’s not just reacting to events. 

After a moment, he smiles. _There’s still time to make this work_ , he thinks. _I can end her interference—the competition for resources over my projects and can possibly take credit for any advances she’s actually made._

Only a part of him wonders who has started this in motion.

* * *

His Grace, Lord Dorith Panteer, newly appointed Imperial Moff of the Sovereign Yard-World of Fondor and its surrounding sector, stares out over the glittering city, with its impressive yards and myriad of spaceships under repair. His lip curls as he thinks about the last year or so of his life. From the exalted height of the head of an ancient Elder family on his homeworld, to head of one of the Empire’s powerful military-industrial concerns on Corellia, Blastech. 

Now to a post as an Imperial bureaucrat on a world that had fallen behind others in its industry and commerce. He does manage to smile—an instant before his mind’s eye plays over the memory of what had gotten him sent here from the lucrative positions on Alderaaan and Corellia. 

First, his continued opposition to Queen Breha, culminating in his resignation because of a manifestation of that opposition. The fact that he had targeted of one of their favorites—a young woman. An upstart with no station who had possessed the temerity to refuse him marriage and the honor of his seed. An action coupled with putting his finger in the eye of the Organa-Antilles factions in the Council of Graces. _No_ , he thinks to himself, _she was a threat to Alderaan’s security, just as Breha and Bail were in the sphere of the Empire._

A targeting that had failed when someone had managed to send money tinged with the whiff of corruption into his accounts. Money that he had originally sent into Nola Vorserrie’s more empty accounts.

He shoves the memories away, even as the ones of what had cost him Corellia—a position he had lost once before. He sees the video—one of excellent quality—of him pulling the trigger on a blaster that had entered the skull of the woman who had shoved him from that original position. He sees Shyla Merricope’s staring eyes as she slumped to the floor next to the unconscious Imperial Advisor for Corellia, Delilah Sal, and the corpse of Rasteen Blackthorn. 

He grits his teeth as he sees the smooth, bland features of the current Moff of Corellia, Dupas Thomree. _We both know you didn’t do it, old boy. But the video and the fact that Rasteen is dead, Delilah is wounded, and Merricope has disappeared, says that I have to take action. The Emperor has given me free rein of what that action is._ Thomree’s face had broken into a grin. _I hear Fondor’s nice this time of year. Only a little bit more smog than Corellia._

There had been no disguising Thomree’s glee at his situation.

Panteer turns as he hears the shuffling step of the powerful woman entering his new office. His eyes fall on the figure of Yosta Aspeff, Mater-Comptroller for the most powerful of the Yard-families—especially since the two parts of the Yard had reunited after decades of strife. He grins as he looks at her bare weapons belt. Rumor had it she had given the heavy blaster that had made her reputation in Fondorian dueling circles, to another distant relation, a young woman now serving Alderaan. 

Apparently the Extinction is no longer a threat in the dueling circles.

He sees that she is favoring her leg—a leg injured in her next-to-last duel. He ignores it and makes her stand. He feels his anger spike as she stares at him and deliberately sits in the nearest chair. Her dark eyes—eyes that only have a hint of the multiple colors of her half Fondorian heritage, stare back at him defiantly, daring him to say anything. He allows a disarming smile to flow over her features. She reaches up and runs her hand through her graying brown hair—the legacy of her human half. He notices that the hair flows down over her shoulders; it is usually drawn up in a tuft—a tuft that leaves the shaven sides of her head visible. An adornment that recalls the naturally bald heads of full-blooded Fondorians. 

“What?” she asks, giving his charm a hard look.

“Please, have a seat, Yosta,” he says dryly. 

“Already did, Dory,” she replies. 

He hardens his look at that nickname, one that he despises. “I’m an Imperial Moff,” he says. “You should treat me with respect, _Mater-Comptroller.”_

Yosta returns his hard look. “Please. I knew you when you somehow got yourself selected as our Senator. We must’ve been hard up to take some castoff from an Elder Family on Alderaan.” She stares at him. “I know your shortcomings, Dory.”

“As I said, Yosta, you should treat me with respect. I’m the one who decides how much independence you and the other Yard-Families will have. Whether or not you’ll have light oversight, or whether I’ll Imperialize your assets.” He opens a datapad. “You’ll receive resource orders from Imperial Weapons Research for their Station Aurek 7. Fill them.”

She doesn’t relax her expression. “If they pay us well enough, we’ll consider it. I don’t give a shit that you’re an Imp, now, Dory. I heard what you’re alleged to have done on Corellia. Shyla Merricope was a friend of mine. The Covenant and his family mean a great deal to me. I can make your life easy or hard here on Fondor. The People are the ones who will work those yards, no matter what you do or don’t do.”

He holds up his hands. “You know, Yosta. I think your head will look good on a stake on the Redemption Beaches of Sukron. After you’ve been ordered to commit Sukron-ne.”

Again, she doesn’t flinch. She is about to speak when another, younger voice intrudes. “Only the YardMaster or Mistress can order one of the People to commit ritual suicide, Your Excellency,” Yelena Dao says. “Last I checked, that’s me.” The younger woman, her silver fountain of hair and multicolored eyes—even more actively changing than Yosta’s, speaks to the fuller blood of her heritage. She reaches down and kisses the older woman, holding her tight. “Grandmother,” she says with affection.

She stares at him, waiting. After a moment, he bows slightly. “Perhaps. But if she is a disgrace, she might go ahead and offer it. You may have no choice but to authorize it.”

Yelena smiles, dismissing his words. “Just thought I’d let you know, Moff. Nola Vorserrie survived your clumsy attempt to kill her. Since you’re the only one who has offered her marriage that she’s refused, you might want to rethink hiring a killer who brags.”

Dorith stares at the tall young woman. She holds up her right trigger finger. “I put a blaster bolt in your killer.”

Dorith takes a deep breath. He turns back to the window without dismissing the two women. He hears the door shut behind them. He pulls up a holo from his datapad. His gaze at the holo peels the years away—fifteen years or so. A tall young woman, with dark, strong features gazes back at him with a ready smile and large eyes, plus an amazing amount of dark, frizzy hair framing her face. She stands in a flowing dress—a Zeltron style, even though she is human, against the backdrop of the Capitol City fountain of Coronet, on the world that had taken her in. 

He closes his eyes, thinking of the possibilities for his own homeworld, if he can track the rumors surrounding this woman. Possibilities that could bring his family back to prominence with his own control, rather than through his niece, who has taken his place. A niece that grows more distant with each holocall; she grows more into the camp of the Organas with each passing month. 

He whispers one word in the cavernous office. 

_Ardalen._

* * *

The Chalice of Omri keeps her eyes closed tightly, letting the emotions of her world flow over her. Her gift was simple—simple and unique. She feels the smile move over her lips. _Well, maybe not so unique._ There had been an anomaly that had nearly produced alternative candidates in the generation before her—some that had manifested some aspects, or at least symptoms of a new Chalice. 

She shakes her head of that thought, coming back to the the gift itself. Her gift is that of focusing—focusing the resonance of the millions on her world towards any threat. She sends herself deeper into the resonance. She focuses on the warmth suffusing her body from the lock on two of her acolytes in the their quarters, both focused entirely on one another. 

She tries to catalog some of the other emotions as she reaches out beyond the walls of the Capitoline enclave. 

Alyysina feels tears begin to spill down her cheeks as a different emotions—more distant ones—move into her resonance. The grief from that distant city cuts through her heart, but as with most feelings on her world, the grief is tinged with joy—the joy that Zeltrons feel in life, the joy that is reflected even when they leave this life. 

As she allows the emotions to continue to flow over her, she lets her mind drift to the problem at hand. She had read over all of the reports from the various entities that seemed to now be involved in this entire mess. 

Alyysina rolls her eyes, finding it hard to believe that a simple wedding proposal and subsequent activity could turn into this chaos. She tries to make heads or tails of the entire mess.

Project Xerus—the catalyst of an engagement by the Corellians in the war to try and capture dangerous Separatist technology, technology that could play with the very fabric of space and hyperspace—something that had never come to fruition. 

It still hadn’t. No one could tell her why it hadn’t. Based on what she had been told, Draq’ Bel Iblis, the Dragon of Corellia hadn’t been involved in any of this. The father of her daughter—a man who still caused her inner heart to catch when she thought of him—was known the galaxy over for his machinations and conspiracies. He was a past master at dividing and conquering, of shaking the fabric of the galaxy in his own inimitable way. 

She smiles as feelings that affect other parts of her soul, particularly her body. Feelings that are probably aided by the young acolytes enjoying each other. A pair now joined with others.

Alyys rests her hands on her thighs, her thumbs stroking her skin, helping to center and calm her emotions, to clear her mind once again. The secondary part of the soul, behind the heart, and above the body. 

All of them working in tandem. Hopefully they can help her solve this riddle. A riddle made even more complicated by the news of another, more recent version of what the Corellians were looking for.

Project Starsweep. A revived project of the New Order, one whose very name speaks of the same thing that Xerus did. A gravity well that could yank a ship from hyperspace. A project, that if viable, could spell doom for any nascent rebellion. A rebellion that her world could be a part of, if a certain Zoetarch can get his head out of his ass and find that which he had lost. 

A daughter and an object. A lost daughter that is his heart, but an object that could bring down his government if not found. An object that facilitates and focuses the resonances, not for defense, but for making the very decisions that a representative democracy has to make in order to survive. 

Alyysina shakes her head, shifting her thoughts from just her world’s problems, but to the bigger ones of several worlds—problems that seem to be coalescing around her world, but with so many other threads on several worlds. 

She focuses on the summary from her datapad. A world looking for its daughter. Several other worlds trying to fight the darkness, as well as grow the fight. Another daughter, an unacknowledged daughter of Corellia, lost as well, possibly the key to it all.

The interest in that woman from one who doesn’t seem to possess any basic quality of conscience and compassion, except for his own power and his own pocketbook. An interest that she and Draq’ Bel Iblis suspect might’ve originated during his time on Corellia, as head of the corporation that had first given her a chance to grow into her education and skills. 

Blastech. She remembers Dorith Panteer giving his firm handshake when she had later accepted a promotion—all while knowing that her gift as the future Chalice would entail her leaving. He had given her no more thought than his immaculately tailored suit.

She goes deeper into her analysis as the emotions coming from her acolytes rise. She wonders if she’ll eventually have to join them, as the restlessness of her body increases with the power of the emotions. 

Alyys manages to shove that restlessness away, thinking of the other threads from both eras, all apparently linked together. _Pirates and criminals and spies, oh my_ , she thinks remembering a bit of childhood doggeral. All sorts of threads, all circling around each other, the central thread just out of reach—the one responsible for juggling all of those balls in the air. 

Her mind stops. She remembers one individual with the propensity for throwing all of these balls into the air. She feels a tiny bit of anger growing. That individual would sometimes juggle them, but would just as often let them fall to the ground, leaving someone else to pick up the pieces. 

Someone not named Draq’ Bel Iblis. 

Alyys completely blocks the emotions from her world in her powerful resonance. Her mind focuses on that face, a face that she had shoved from her world. She reaches down and pulls up the robe that is pooled on the marble floor as she kneels, attempting to find clarity. As the robe is closed over her body, she finds her comm. She enters a particular code from memory, as her eyes open.

A code that she had never thought to use again. As she does, more clarity comes from the memory of that report. The name of a particular system of a particular sector. 

One that she knows in another context—not a place, but something else. Something that had been far closer to her, at one time. 

The comm connects. The holo, as usual, is washed free of colors, but she can see the contrast of the woman’s white hair, with some darker streaks remaining. Streaks that she knows are as blue as her own. She fixes on the holo’s eyes, knowing their color, as well as her own amber, now permanently black. 

Deepest, darkest purple. The holo can’t wash away the surprise in those eyes, surprise replaced by so many emotions. 

Including humor. 

“Well,” Naathanan Betten’ii says in a light voice, “never expected this. I thought that your Corellian boytoy’s Hells would freeze over before you ever called me, Bug.”

As she concentrates on what she has to say, Alyys does think of the irony of someone referring to Draq’ Bel Iblis as a ‘boytoy’.

Alyysina Faygan takes a deep breath. “Hello, Mother,” she says, not bothering with the Zeltron version of the word. “What the hell have you done?

“What the hell is Ardalen up to?”

* * *

Ahsoka Tano wipes her hand over the holo of Hondo Ohnaka before he can focus on her face, or, worse yet, actually say something. She turns around and stares at Sorentin Rhayme and Gral Kruvure, waiting for them to say something. 

Sorentin doesn’t disappoint. “He could be a help, girl,” he says dryly, “in spite of himself.”

“Maybe so,”Ahsoka replies. “But I have to deal with you two assholes. If I had to deal with Hondo as well, there wouldn’t be enough whisky in the world.”

“Fair enough,” Gral replies. “Especially with the chief asshole.” He gestures at Rhayme who burns him with an angry bronze gaze. Ahsoka manages not to smile at the familiarity of that gaze, sometimes directed at her by another. Instead, she focuses on Gral.

“So where’s the Face, Gral? The two of you in that time period that you need a break from each other?” 

Gral looks away. “I don’t know. I thought she was doing something for you, Fulcrum.” 

Ahsoka notices that all of Jaten’s team have disappeared, leaving him to deal with her. Meglann steps back into the room, without Cyn. Ahsoka raises an eyebrow marking at her.

“Jaten’s playmates took her to get some of her booboos looked at. They were afraid my awesomeness might be too much for her without medical attention.”

Ahsoka shakes her head, wondering whether it’s Lassa or Dani to blame for that ‘confidence’.

_Or Nola._

_No self-awareness here, huh, Runt?_ asks her internal Covenant-voice.

She sends the voice away, turning once again to the terrible two. She allows her eyes to flash with the anger that she starts to feel. “I thought you two were told to stay on the goddamned ship. To keep your noses out of this,” she says. 

Sorentin and Gral look at one another. Gral, who appears to feel that he’s more likable than Sorentin, starts to open his mouth in reply.

Someone else beats him to it; someone who surprises them all. Maybe even including the someone. 

“Give them a break, Fulcrum,” Meglann says. “They did defend me; they also fought with me when everything went to shit.”

Ahsoka turns to her and narrows her eyes. She holds the brown gaze, a gaze that has turned more defiant, before moving back to Sorentin and Gral. She contemplates them for a moment, then allows her expression to relax. 

Her shoulders slump a bit, as well. 

“Okay. It’s a good thing that Meglann is so soft-hearted,” she says.

Her words are met with varying sounds and looks of derision from the trio, as well as Jaten.

“I don’t know you that well, but I know your type, Fulcrum,” Jaten says. “I’m sure I speak for the entire body, when I say, ‘bullshit’.”

Ahsoka ignores him, as well as the others. “So what did you find out?” she asks the pair.

“Loganer was dealing with Krtsador. He seemed to be sponsoring him on his little project. Or, I should say projects. Krtsador wouldn’t have minded having an established Outer Rim pirate crew under his thumb, even if what had established it wouldn’t be in the picture any more. There was also the matter of the Clone Wars gig. I’m not sure how much Loganer knew from his time with Hondo, but I’m sure he’d heard enough.”

“So how was Hondo involved?” Ahsoka asks. 

“Don’t know. Someone got impatient and wiped his comm with us,” Gral says evenly. He stares at Ahsoka. 

_Okay,_ she thinks, _I was wrong. Sorentin has all of the charm_.

The one with the charm stares at Gral, mouthing a couple of words. Or at least a couple of action words with some choice modifiers. Gral apparently takes them to heart and falls silent. 

“I’m not sure, Fulcrum,” Sorentin says smoothly. “Hondo like to stick his nose in, until he found that there was actual work, or that he had to work well with others. I’m not sure what his relationship with Mal Dolros, Lassa’s captain at the time was.”

Ahsoka grins. “I know what Lassa’s was. She and Asajj Ventress came up against him, before I met her. All three of them gave a credible effort to trying to kill each other. I think they all parted alive. Plus Lassa and Hondo did work together when—”

She stops, trying to shove the memories away of an early adventure in her career. One when she had thought she had lost everything, but had realized that there were still some in the universe who would defend her, even at the risk of everything. Someone who had even gained the help of one that Ahsoka would’ve never considered would help keep her alive, even at the cost of valuable kyber crystals and Jedi lightsabers. 

Ahsoka feels Meglann touch the skin of her arm above the bracers. She looks in the brown eyes, now brimming with understanding. She brings herself back to the present. 

She raises her eyebrow markings with a thought. “Hondo lost his crew and ships, right?” she muses.

“Yeah,” Sorentin replies. “I don’t know the story on that. I think he’s actually lost them before.”

Ahsoka nods. “Do you think that he might be after Lassa’s ship and crew? Loganer did work for him, back in the day.”

Sorentin looks at Gral. Ahsoka stares at them, then allows her look to soften. Both of them seem to be communicating in an unspoken language. 

_Either that, or they’re constipated,_ she thinks uncharitably. 

“I don’t think so, but it’s possible,” says Sorentin. “Hondo was pretty adamant that he thought that Loganer was an idiot, even by Hondo’s standards for crew.”

Ahsoka looks at her comm, then at Meglann. “I think we need to head towards wherever we’re going to go. Mind if we use your ship, Captain?” she asks Meglann.

She pretends not to see the raw pride and gratitude on Meglann’s face at that title. “I think so, Fulcrum,” Meglann replies. “How many are we taking?”

“Well, these two, at least,” Ahsoka says, gesturing at Rhayme and Kruvure. “Their continued transportation is contingent on what they bring to the table. Or whether or not they travel on the outside or the inside of the ship.”

Gral smiles. “Well, we might have some in-depth, inside information for you from Lassa’s ship and crew. Just might need to reestablish contact.”

Ahsoka nods, then turns to Jaten. “So what about you? You need a ride, Iron?” she asks. She instantly regrets her choice of words around a Zeltron as the gleam comes into his gray eyes. 

“You offering, Fulcrum? Alyysina said that you might want to hear bedtime stories about Obi-Wan Kenobi.” He stops, looking down, realizing what he had said. 

Ahsoka can feel the grief coming off of him, in shattered waves. She gives him an out.

She holds up her hand, grimacing. “I’m sorry I asked. You can fly with us. Your minions—especially the one with the poker up her ass can follow in your ship. We might need backup.”

Jaten nods, growing serious. “I’d never do anything to bring you grief, or tarnish the memory of him for you, Fulcrum,” he says earnestly. He closes his eyes. 

“Nothing really could, Jaten,” Ahsoka says. She suddenly pulls him into her arms. They hold each other tightly as the others watch. 

He breaks away, then turns to leave. “I’ll meet you at your ship,” he says. “I’ll relay the transportation plan to my team.”

After he is gone, Ahsoka turns to the two reprobates. “Come on. You can tell us what you know of the original caper. Maybe that’ll help us figure out where we need to go.”

* * *

Lassa looks up at Mal, who sits in the pilot’s chair of the old, but powerful CR-75. The stars reduce to their pinpricks from the chaos of hyperspace. 

“Scopes are negative Captain,” she says from her position to his right. He grunts and nods. 

“Well, we’re at the coordinates,” he says. “I guess we wait for the next piece of the puzzle.”

“Little too much puzzle for my taste,” she says, staring into his eyes.

“I know, Lassa,” he says. “But this could—”

“Yeah, I know,” she interrupts. “It could solve a lot of problems.” She feels her gaze harden. “Could cause some, too. Some you haven’t seen coming.”

He turns and looks fully at her. “You let me worry about that, girl,” he says, his voice cold. 

She grits her teeth. “No. You made me Quartermaster,” she says, keeping her voice low. “That makes it my responsibility to worry.” She looks down and away, hoping that she can say what she has to say with only a small amount of pain from her memories. She turns back to him. She jerks her head at the crewman standing behind them, manning the repeater. He suddenly finds himself something else to do, at her look. 

“I’ve dealt with the Seppies before, at least the Trade Federation,” she says. “I stood there and watched my crew die, while balancing on a stool with a cord around my neck.” She busies herself by reaching up and touching the tiny, almost unnoticeable scar between her collarbones. She remembers the feel of the cheap liqui-cable biting into her throat, as she contemplated kicking the stool from beneath her bare feet. 

Mal’s eyes lock on the scar. He reaches up and touches her cheek. “I know, sweetie,” he says, his own voice quiet. “I know what you went through. But you’ve got to trust me that I have a plan. For whatever comes up.”

“Including a vote out?” she asks, lifting her own hand and covering his. 

He gives her his roguish grin, the one that almost makes her forget that she would never come onto him, just as he would never take advantage of her. She shakes her head. _He’s probably the only person of his charm that I’ve made that vow for_ , she thinks.

A beeping noise interrupts them. They look out the port just in time to see a small Corellian freighter jump in. Lassa raises her eyebrows; the freighter is of a type she’s never seen before. 

“Comm coming in, Captain,” says the midshipman at the communications station. 

“Put it through,” Mal says. 

The holo comes up, showing the Guildmaster’s young agent. “I have the next leg, but the Guildmaster wants to meet and discuss it. Just one of you,” the teenager finishes. 

Mal rises. “If I’m not back—” he starts. 

“Not you, Captain. Your Quartermaster,” the agent says. 

Mal’s anger rises. Lassa stands up and puts her hand on his arm. “It’s okay, Captain. I’ll be fine,” she says. 

“Why her?” Mal spits out. 

“Because the Guildmaster wants to make sure you’ll stay put. She’ll be safe, Dolros.” The holo fades. 

Lassa puts her fingers on his lips. “I’m okay, Mal,” she says. “I’ll be back in a flash.”

As the _Opportunity_ fades from view, just before the freighter jumps away, Lassa wonders how the hell she got into this position in the first place.


	10. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lawyers, guns, and money. Scientists and engineers, too.

Nola watches as the ramp of the Imperial shuttle lowers. She doesn’t look at Rae or any of her other captors. She looks down at her cuffed hands, feeling a tiny smirk flow to her lips. _I wonder how many times in the next several years, I’m going to wind up in binders, either from friend or foe_ , she thinks. _It’s starting to become a regular occurrence._

That thought causes her to finally focus on Rae Sloane. An unconscious part of her moves her eyes downward to the officer’s ass in her uniform trousers. _Not the way I ever really wanted to be tied up by Rae Sloane_ , comes into her mind. She shakes that thought away, cursing to herself. _You really have been hanging around Dani Faygan too long._

As they move through the passageways of the Star Destroyer, she realizes why she is trying to distract herself with a brief memory of more enjoyable pursuits with Rae—from a single time where a ‘friends with benefits’ model was on the table. 

Literally on the kitchen table of her small apartment in the palace.

She is trying to distract herself because of fear. She passes a floating black sphere, its malevolence apparent with the sinister accessories that hang from it. She recognizes the interrogation droid from when she had gone through officer selection training for the Alderaani Defense and Consular Security forces a few months ago—a refresher of sorts, from her Handmaiden training. Without the makeup tips. The lightness in her head fades as another picture flows into her mind. 

She sees herself strapped to a table as electricity plays over her body, as fire plays along her nerves from the drug that moves through her body—the only drug her training had described. A lower dose of the nerve-fire that is one of the prescribed methods of slow termination for crimes against the state. 

Nola grits her teeth, shoving the vision from her mind. She sees Bouva staring at her from her expressionless helmet. She can almost feel the triumphant smirk on the woman’s features at her expression and the gasp that she had let slip. She remembers what had crossed her mind at their dinner party a few weeks ago, when she and Phyllida Enolo had so casually discussed the impending execution of a young officer. 

_I could kill you with ease, darling_ , had been the thought. She finishes the remembered thought. _The jury’s still out on Rae_ , as she’d seen the distaste crossing Rae’s features at the discussion. 

Bouva turns away. As the other troopers face forward, Rae reaches out and touches Nola’s hand again. She stares into Rae’s dark eyes, unable to read her expression—whether it’s one of sympathy for her fear, or one of sympathy because she knows what’s coming.

Nola returns her gaze, fighting to keep her own anger from her features, a concession that’s difficult for her, as she tries to fathom whether she is facing the ‘order is everything’ Rae Sloane, or the funny, compassionate, navigating-the-right-course example that had warmed her on Alderaan. When she was reeling from her own losses and trying to find her own path. 

Rae turns away from her as they continue to whatever hole that she’s going to be thrown in. 

The party rounds the corner and stops up short. A tall young woman, silvered hair fountaining up from the center of her bare skull, stands in the middle of the passageway. She is clad in a formal tunic and skirt that Nola would’ve never imagined her wearing, having last seen her in a sleeveless tunic and trousers. A very young officer accompanies her.

Nola had last seen the young woman right after she had woken up from the blaster rifle’s needle-bolt that Yelena Dao had sent through her shoulder. Into her would-be assassin. She senses the stormtrooper’s weapons coming up. She turns to them and is about to speak when Bouva holds her fingers up to the ear of her helmet. 

She signals the troopers to stand down and focuses her helmet’s eyes on Rae. “Well, XO, she’s your problem now. My troopers don’t get to have any fun with her. This woman will apparently fill you in.”

Nola is gratified by the anger apparent on Rae’s face at Bouva’s comment on the entertainment of her troopers by Nola’s pain. 

Yelena takes a deep breath and nods at Rae. “I’m here representing two Imperial moffs—or at least my world, rather than the Moff there. The ship that you fired upon, the one that you’re wanting to execute that poor officer for her hesitation, was bringing highly skilled refugees to Fondor. The Crowneshield Foundation had been working to give refugees a new life—both skilled and unskilled. To help us solve this issue, the Moff of Corellia and the Moff of Fondor request that Ms. Vorserrie be released. Neither of them have seen any truly significant charges or transgressions that she has committed,” she finishes. 

Rae stares at her, trying to formulate a response. “Why is Corellia concerned about this? It’s my understanding that Fondor is trying to get back into the shipbuilding business, rather than just the ship repair,” she remarks. “That would be competition.” 

Yelena nods. “That’s only partially true. We at Dao-Aspeff understand our place in the universe. We are better than anyone at fixing ships. It’s some of the lesser Yards that are whispering in the Moff’s ear.” Nola narrows her eyes at that little white lie. “Plus, it’s my understanding that the Viceroy of Corellia, Moff Thomree, is supportive in the mission of the Crownshield Foundation. Not only does it make him look good, but it supports the mission of our glorious Empire by getting unwanteds to where they might better serve the Emperor.” Nola manages to keep a straight face at Yelena’s monotone recitation of the last sentence and its reference to the glory of the Empire and the Emperor.

Rae pauses, then shifts her gaze to Nola. After a moment, she looks down at her datapad. She looks back at Yelena. “I don’t want to know. This ensign will show you where to find the Captain. Apparently the Corellian magistrate and representative is already with her.” Nola raises her eyebrows at that. 

Rae continues to stare at her for a moment, then reaches down and just as gently as she had placed the binders, removes them. “I don’t know if you’re out of the woods or not. ISB or that Moff on Fondor—that same aristocratic git on Alderaan who wanted to breed children off of you—might not be so forgiving, Nola,” she says. She looks down. “Do you think that we could just talk sometime, Nola? Without the stormies or your high-powered friends around?”

After a moment, Nola responds. “I’d like that, Rae,” is all that she says. Rae’s face shows a tiny bit of warmth as she moves away. 

Nola turns to Yelena, whose darker features seem to be a shade paler. “Good job, Yelena. I thought that you could only settle things with your rifle,” she says, making sure that the Imperial brat is out of earshot as they continue. 

“The rifle’s a lot easier,” Yelena replies. 

In several moments, they are standing inside of an office. Nola nods to Captain Phyllida Enolo, who, after a moment, nods and then gives a warm smile. 

As warm as she can. Nola’s gaze moves over to the figure standing next to her chair, a figure in Imperial uniform. 

Her eyes widen as she identifies the owner of the uniform.

Bryne Covenant’s expression is neutral. Idly, she hopes that his hoodoo is working, the one that conceals his true features from the Clone Wars. He had once told Nola that he had met Rae Sloane at Jana’s funeral.

“I see that you know our Imperial magistrate from Corellia, their Covenant or whatever he’s called, my dear,” Phyllida says. “He’s here on two matters—including the one that we’re jumping out in the next hour or so. Something about another Corellian citizen, as well as, shall we say, smoothing the whole matter over of that medical ship.” She looks up at him—giving him a look that is almost predatorial. “He looks like he could be very persuasive. I think Commander Bouva and I might want to see just how persuasive he can be.”

Nola manages to keep her eyes from rolling, but stares at the uniform. Phyllida notices. “Ah yes, Nola. His Eminence has a reserve commission for CorSec. Under the Local Defense Force Act, he is eligible for an Imperial exchange commission. I’ve taken the liberty of activating it.” She gives that predatorial look at her. “Just as I have for a certain Alderaani Consular Security Second Lieutenant,” she says. Nola’s heart clinches. “So that I can keep you both under Imperial discipline.”

“Welcome to the Imperial Navy, Nola,” she says. “You’re now both ISB Agents Afloat.” She looks at Yelena Dao, who stands watching the whole thing with her own mixture of amusement and confusion. “My dear YardMaster, I’m afraid you can’t accompany us. Moff Panteer requests that you return to Fondor. He doesn’t want you involved.” Two fleet troopers walk up. They don’t touch Yelena, but the inference is clear. Yelena looks helplessly at Bryne and Nola as she turns and walks off of the bridge.

Nola tries to keep the anger from her look. Instead she smirks at Bryne’s expression.

**The Past: The First Year of the Separatist War**

Sorentin Rhayme, Thought-General of the Pantoran All-Highest Strategery, steps out of the Chairman’s office. His huge frame, covered in its dress finery, barely conceals his deep anger. He closes his eyes, fighting to calm himself. As always when he tries to settle, his mind’s eye goes to a place in the past, a place where he had been the happiest he’d ever been in his life. A fleeting moment, but one that made him realize that he had produced something in his life that he could be proud of.

One child among nearly a dozen, who was just like him. He shakes his head, wondering if others would think that was his greatest achievement—others that had been exposed both to his personality, as well, as on the receiving end of some of his schemes.

He finds that he doesn’t care. He remembers the breathing and heartbeat of the young woman—a young woman nearly as tall as he, even at only twelve years old, as he steadied her arms holding the A180 blaster. 

The joy in her dark bronze eyes, so like his own, as the bolt had found its mark, exactly dead center. 

He manages to push his last sight of her, of those similar eyes staring at him with loathing as he left her and her mother to the tender mercies of another wife. 

He pulls the elaborate cocked hat from his head, then runs his fingers through his dark blue hair—hair tinged with the more common lavender of his people, as well as the white of experience. After a moment, he places the hat under his arm and walks away from the Chairman’s office. He remembers the conversation; he remembers the anger from both of them. 

“You’re soft, Rhayme,” Chi Cho said, staring at him, his pointed chin quivering with anger. “This so-called plan of yours reinforces that belief of mine.”

“I don’t know how it makes me soft, Chairman,” Rhayme replied. “I’ve given you a plan to extricate ourselves from Orto Plutonia. One that we’ll be able to look at ourselves in the mirror, thinking that we’ve done the honorable thing.”

“You’re one to talk about honor, Rhayme,” Cho snarled. “I don’t know how many times you’ve been fired and rehired by this office for some of your schemes.”

Rhayme smiled at him, “I have a feeling I’m about to make it an even dozen,” he remarked, examining his nails.

“This time, I don’t think you’ll get a plush job guarding our new Senator,” Cho said. “I think you’ll be on the dungheap of Pantoran history. Always just centimeters away from glory and fame.” His eyes sparked. “Only coming into infamy.”

Rhayme nods at him, his smile growing with warmth. “I think that the time I spent guarding Riyo Chuichi was the best punishment I could have. She’s twice the Pantoran you or I are, Cho.”

A nastier smile grew on Cho’s face. “Oh, so did you sample her wares, as you have others? Have you got her wrapped around your finger?” His eyes narrowed. “Or something else?”

“I won’t dignify that with an answer, except to say that I’m not exactly on her Life Day card list. She said that I would most likely wind up hanging from a gibbet,” Rhayme replied quietly. 

“Then she’s a better judge of character than I thought she was,” Cho replied, “in spite of being a puling little coward, afraid of her own shadow.”

Rhayme’s expression had hardened. “That’s not exactly showing how great of a judge of character you are. But I will say that it’s a good thing I’m a serving officer and can’t challenge you to a duel. It’d give me great pleasure to cut your heart out.” He pauses. “If I could find it.”

This had led him to his current trip out of the Chairman’s complex. He’d gotten the satisfaction of telling Cho that he’d requested a clonetrooper outpost from the Republic, to keep their own troops out of it. “I’m not really sure what your ambitions are on Orto Plutonia, Cho,” he had said as he had marched out under escort.

Rhayme sees Riyo Chuichi walking by with her staff, headed to Cho’s office. Her glance is frosty, but warms for an instant as he passes him. 

“One of these days, bud, you’re going to learn how to choose wisely when you speak to power—when it’s the right time to let power step on its own cock,” he says aloud to himself, picking up his hat where it had been thrown by the Chairman’s guards.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be thinking about cocks,” says a warm voice near him. Rhayme starts as he realizes that he has managed to wander outside of the Chairman’s building. His eyes widen at the owner of the voice. 

A beautiful crimson-skinned woman, not quite as tall as most of her species, gazes at him with a pair of dark purple eyes—eyes that appear to be filled with plenty of joy and laughter. 

Something he’s in short supply of. 

He looks the woman up and down, simultaneous with her full examination of him. Sorentin smiles his most charming smile at her, then raises an eyebrow. 

She appears to be in her thirties at most, but he realizes that her hair is mostly white, with a few brilliant streaks of blue in the foamy waves. 

“You’re the Captain of the Blood Bone Order,” he says. “Naathanan Betten’ii.”

Her smiles grows warmer. “Call me Naatha. No. Not in at least twenty years. There’s another Captain now. One who’s almost ready for a change in occupations. I’m a respectable businesswoman, now. Serving my world’s interests, as penance for my years of being a scoundrel.” She moves closer to him; he feels the warmth of her hand on his cheek. “I understand that you might have some experience in serving your world as a scoundrel of the first rank.”

Sorentin smiles crookedly. “You might think that, but I won’t comment,” he says. “What can I do for you, milady?” 

She laughs, a sound that causes his genitals to tighten, as well as long for freedom from his trousers. He realizes that the gifts of her people are set on ‘full’. He takes a deep breath, but another rescues him. 

A young human woman, with dark skin, slightly taller than the Zeltron, walks out from behind her. Sorentin is struck by the tremendous amount of self-possession in her eyes, as well as the heavy cloud of her dark curls, teased into a high crest. She stares at him with a hint of challenge in her eyes, but with a wide, engaging smile, when it finally appears. “This is my daughter, Ardalen Nath,” Naathanan says. “She’s a talented engineer, who might have several bones to pick with some people. I’m trying to channel that restless energy into something productive—or at least counterproductive to some of those someones.”

Sorentin has enough sense of self-preservation not to remark on the difference in species between mother and daughter. He smiles at the firm grip of the young woman when he shakes hands. 

Naathanan touches Ardalen’s cheek. “She has several other talents, as well, courtesy of Corellia, the world that took her in and reared her. The older woman reaches up and kisses her on the forehead. “Talents that you’d appreciate—talents of chaos and mayhem.”

Ardalen grins at him. “Got a few softer talents from my foster-world as well,” she says. 

Sorentin is worldly enough not to embarrass himself by blushing. “I hear that you’re good in a fight and have a brain, even though it doesn’t seem to work as fast as your mouth,” Naatha says. “Plus you’ve got someone on retainer who might be able to give us a hand, especially when it comes to Seppie contacts.”

He starts to speak, but stops. He decides not to demonstrate that skill. 

Naatha smiles. “Good. My former crew and their captain will be involved in this little caper. As I said, Captain Dolros might be looking to get out of the pirating business. He has someone in mind for his successor. Someone who might be lost to you.” She grins. “Someone who hates your guts.”

“Someone else,” says a familiar voice from behind the two women.

Gral Kruvure steps out, his eyes filled with loathing. Sorentin is sure that the expression is mutual.

“Kruvure,” he spits out.

He suddenly is unable to move or think as the blood rushes to another part of his body. Kruvure, his former partner, has this same inability.

“Boys,” Naathanan says, “I appreciate the sizes of your chah’dere’a, but I don’t have time. Perhaps I’ll do some mediation of my own.” Her smile turns devilish. “In my people’s way.”

As a feeling of warmth surges through his body, Sorentin Rhayme looks over at Ardalen. Just in time to see her dark eyes roll.

* * *

A soft, melodic song resonates in the darkness. A familiar song, from long ago, from someone she had once thought dead. A someone who’d come back to her. 

Dani Faygan slowly opens her eyes. The thrum of a hyperdrive can be heard and felt in the background of the song. She tries to raise her head; the rapid firing of her nerve endings dissuades her from the attempt. _Oh, right_ , she thinks. _Another day, another stun bolt_.

She lays her cheek back against leather, but manages to focus on her surroundings. She is resting in a crew chair, her head turned to the side and its view of otherspace. She takes a deep breath, then turns towards the melody. 

A melody sung to Zeltron children from time immemorial. She focuses on remembering the words, even though they aren’t being voiced. A song of joy and love—much like anything on her mother’s world.

Her eyebrows raise as she realizes that the melody doesn’t come from one of her mother’s people. The human woman—the dancer who had stunned both Divo and her. She smiles, remembers her eyes moving over the dancer’s nearly nude body as she and Divo had waited on the ISB informant. The woman’s dark eyes had returned her gaze, interest apparent in the depths, as the woman’s body undulated, her dark skin—

Dani rolls her eyes. _Do you listen to yourself, sometimes?_ she thinks. She grins as she realizes that the voice in her head sounds like Bryne Covenant—words he had actually said to her in the past. Usually when she had beat him to checking someone interesting out. 

_Comparing notes._

She manages to lift her head, finally. The woman, maybe just a few years older than her—not quite forty, stops her absent-minded humming. She turns and smiles at Dani. Dani is struck by the wide, open smile—something that lightens Dani’s heart, in spite of her situation.

“Hello, Daaineran,” the woman says. Dani fights for the memory of her name. 

“Do I know you, Ladiana?” she asks, managing to remember. 

“Maybe not personally, but we have some people in common,” she replies. She stands up and brings a bottle of water over to the seat. Dani notices that the chair isn’t at one of the stations, but her hands aren’t bound. 

Dani drinks greedily. She allows her eyes to move over Ladiana’s body again. The dancer is now clad in a dark, form-fitting jumpsuit, that still reveals a decent amount of skin. She puts the bottle down after it’s drained. “So, I’d love to know what dancing school taught you how to toss a stun grenade into a scrum of thugs so precisely,” Dani remarks.

Ladiana smiles. As before, Dani is almost mesmerized by the engaging expression. She realizes that Ladiana’s natural curls, which had fanned out from her head while dancing, are bound tightly to her head now. “I didn’t learn that where I learned the dancing. I learned that at a certain place the we’re both familiar with. A House,” she finishes. 

Dani raises one eyebrow at the emphasis—the almost audible capitalization of the word. She nods as she recognizes the name of a particular orphanage that cultivates certain innate skills in its residents, then allows them to choose a life of service to their world. 

Her father’s world. An orphanage that had produced that father, the Dragon of Corellia. 

She knows the place that Ladiana speaks of. She should, as she is now the Director of what is now essentially Corellia’s non-Imperial intelligence service. 

“So why don’t you work for Corellia?” she asks, looking sharply at Ladiana. 

Ladiana smiles. “They were afraid I’d take over,” she says with a laugh. “I got adopted at fifteen. My new mother was able to continue my training.” She gives Dani a hooded look, then runs her hand over Dani’s cheek, allowing it to linger. “She taught me a few other things, as well.”

“So why did you take me out of there? We could’ve worked something out with Divo,” she says. 

“Maybe,” Ladiana replies. “But my mother wanted you out of there.” She kisses Dani quickly. “She kind of wanted her granddaughter away from the Imps.”

Dani’s heart twists at those words, her stomach also dropping from the ship into hyperspace. She manages to keep calm, at least on the exterior. Her heart starts to beat rapidly. 

“I don’t know my grandmother,” she replies evenly. “She left long before I was born. Not really sure why. My mother wouldn’t speak of her.”

Ladiana nods. “I know. She’s not exactly proud of that. She felt like she had to.”

Dani’s anger sparks. “Lot of that going around,” she spits out, thinking of her own mother’s ‘death’.

Ladiana’s own expression grows harder. “You don’t exactly always know what people are thinking or going through.

Her words cut through Dani. She looks away, fighting tears. “I know. I’ve forgiven my mother.”

Ladiana’s eyes soften. Dani is warmed by the wide smile again. 

“So what else is the reason that you shot me? What the hell’s going on? What the hell is in the Ardalen system?”

Her adopted aunt grins. “Several things. First, I’m trying to finish something that was started back in the Clone Wars. Something that will benefit your birthworld and my adopted world. Second, I’m helping to settle a bet.”

Dani’s eyes widen; she smirks at the hint of humor in the voice. _She was raised on Corellia_ , she thinks.

“By the way, there’s nothing in the Ardalen system. We’re bound for Azdriel, at least initially,” Ladiana says. 

“Ardalen is a person. Me.”

Dani lifts her water bottle, wishing for something stronger.

Ardalen obliges, seeing her expression. She pulls a flask from her bodice.

* * *

Phyllida Enolo stares out at the stars. The _Resurgent_ had yet to receive her final orders from whoever the hell it is that they were going to report. Her eyes narrow as she thinks of being caught between two powerful factions of the Empire. She tries not to think about not only walking a tightrope, but somehow finding a way to jump up and down on that cable.

She pulls her datapad from the railing and scrolls it to the message from Dorith Panteer. The bourgeoning disagreement between Panteer, her nominal boss through the sector admiral, and the Deputy Director of Advanced Weapons Research, Noar Zan Arbor. A disagreement over her own ship and its deployment. 

_You are to provide whatever assistance you can to the Deputy Director commanding_ , reads the dry naval prose, _but at the same time, you are to report any movement to me directly, eschewing the sector fleet admiral commanding. Especially any information on a former Separatist engineer named Ardalen Nath_. 

She wonders which fathier she should tie her future to. She remembers the Panteer family from her young adulthood on Alderaan, its almost visceral desire to unseat the current ruling family coalition—the Organa-Antilles family. A desire stemming not only from the belief that Alderaan should return to a king’s rule, but one from another, less noble desire. A desire for revenge after Queen Mazi had ordered Panteer’s grandfather into house arrest, after an aborted attempt to overthrow her rule. Phyllida smiles. A very clumsy attempt, at that. One that had cost another their job because he never was able to detect the attempt.

Lingus Enolo. Peacekeeper-General of Alderaan. The last true _Mishleh_ —the ‘one in charge’ of Alderaan’s security, before a political animal had taken over. She shakes her head, shoving memories of her father to the back of her mind. She can’t think of family now, even through the mists of time. Her own service to Alderaan, then to the Republic, and finally to the Empire, had separated her from her father’s disgrace.

She would serve the Empire, no matter which master would prevail. She’s not even sure of what the disagreement between the two senior officers stemmed from. She had a feeling that it had something to do with a project in the Clone War, one that she can’t seem to find much information about. She’d only happened on the project name, almost by accident.

_Xerus._

Phyllida senses a presence at her elbow. Pem Bouva stands behind her, waiting patiently. Se turns and smiles at her loyal stormtrooper. “So our guests are secure?” she asks. 

Pem returns her smile carefully. “Of a sorts. Rae is with Nola in the medcenter; she’s eligible for medical care, since her service to Alderaan has now been Imperialized.”

“How’s it going?” the Captain asks. 

“Don’t really know. They’re both alive. Rae has managed to disrupt any surveillance. She’s playing it close to her vest,” Pem finishes. 

“And the Covenant?”

“He’s in his quarters. I think he’s giving Vorserrie some room.”

“Surveillance?” Phyllida asks.

“Inconclusive. He’s pretty quiet.”

“You feel like a date night?” Phyllida asks with a smirk. “For the glory of the Empire?”

Pem matches her expression. “There are worse duties. You did promise that both of us might explore that opportunity.” She sobers. 

“What is it, Pem?” Phyllida asks. 

“We’ve heard from the appeal tribunal. You’ve been cleared to execute Kozume,” she replies. 

Phyllida takes a deep breath. “Very well. Schedule it for morning divisions. Inform her advocate, Major Dua.”

A communications officer walks up. “Comm from Deputy Director Zan Arbor, Captain.”

She nods, then walks over to a secure comm station, just off the bridge. She motions Pem to follow her.

As always, the washed-out holo is only somewhat able to capture the demented cast to the young woman’s eyes. “I’m sending you coordinates, Enolo,” she says without preamble. “Head there and snoop around.”

“What are we looking for?” Phyllida asks. 

“You’ll know it when you see it. Also, inform me of any contact with Dorith Panteer. I’m not sure what game he’s playing. I know that he interfered with my mother’s projects in the past. I’m getting close to duplicating some of her research.”

Enolo grits her teeth. “What the hell are you playing at?” she asks, her anger rising. 

“Don’t speak to me like that, Captain,” Zan Arbor spits out. “There’s still time for you to stand on that hangar deck with your Ensign.”

Phyllida raises her eyebrows. _There’s the demented look_ , she thinks. “Yes, I know about your little side jobs—shaking down refugee ships,” the scientist says. 

“I don’t think you’d want me to let other people know about some of your little projects, as well, dear,” Enolo responds. She feels Pem’s hand on her arm. Incongruously, she thinks that it might be serious if her pet psychopath is the calming influence.

Zan Arbor stares at her. “Follow your orders, Captain,” she says. The holo disappears. 

Enolo spins around, shaking Pem’s hand off of her arm. She can feel the anger building—the anger at being caught in the middle, without control.

“Would it help, if we tortured Kozume tonight, before we shoot her tomorrow?” Bouva asks dryly.

Phyllida gives her a sour look. She stops, as she remembers something she’d seen. 

Pem looks at her with a raised eyebrow. “Should I—?”

Phyllida softens her look, forcing herself to calm. “Kozume had commando training, right?” she asks. 

“Top of her class. Instructors said that she lacked the killing edge.” Her eyes narrow. “What’re you thinking?”

Phyllida is silent for a moment. “I think we’d be surprised at what edge comes out when you present someone with a chance for extended life.”

“Should I hold off on the execution?” Pem asks. 

Phyllida shakes her head. “No. Let her sweat a bit. I think that I can use my authority for an alternative rehabilitation. One that she can serve the Empire for awhile longer. Maybe a good long while if we can develop that edge, with some conditioning. Particularly since we might use her against these two pains in my ass.”

Bouva joins her in silence, then nods. 

Phyllida smiles and touches her cheek. “How about a little pleasure that doesn’t involve torture? Invite the Covenant to our quarters for dinner.” The smile turns devilish. “Well, maybe a little torture,” she finishes. 

Their laughter rises over the bridge. The crew stiffens at their stations, knowing what any hilarity can lead to from those two.

**The Past**

Lassa stares at the young spacer—no more than a teenager who leads her to a small cabin on the Corellian freighter. She had not recognized the type of ship; a ship that looked like a sawed-off version of the venerable CR series, with five powerful-looking engines.

The young Corellian grunts at her, then opens the door. He jerks her head at her, then turns to leave. Lassa shakes her head then enters the cabin. Her eyes widen at the sight. A Zeltron woman lies on the bed, a datapad resting on a small lapdesk. 

Lassa forces the memory of three other Zeltrons from her mind, closing her eyes at her last sight of their bodies, the Trade Federation slug gloating over their last moments. She feels a sharp warmth in her body—not the one that you associate with Zeltrons, well, a little of that as well, but a feeling a pure comfort and relief for her grief. 

The woman sets the desk and datapad down on the nightstand and stands up. She is by no means short, but smaller than most other of her people Lassa had seen. She still gives the impression of grace and a willowy strength that you would see in someone taller. She looks Lassa up and down, her purple eyes show distinct interest. For the first time in her adult life, Lassa is self-conscious of her half-opened dress shirt. 

She focuses on a spot just above the woman’s white-with-blue-streaked hair. The woman shakes her head, smiling. “Hello, dear,” she says in a musical voice. “Glad to see you. I’ve got the final details of your little job.”

Lassa raises her eyebrows, but returns the bold look. “That’s good to know. I’d be more interested if you had payment details,” she replies.

The woman—the Guildmaster—laughs. The sound cuts through Lassa’s body, centered somewhere around her middle. _Come on, Rhayme_ , she thinks. _You gotta focus on something besides your chah-dere_. Her heart twists at her use of the Zeltron word; those three faces—her love, his sister, and her heart-bond. 

In an instant, the woman is by her side, her face filled with sympathy and concern. She pulls Lassa into an embrace. “Tell me about your lost, dear,” she says, adding “I’m Naatha.”

Lassa is tempted to, but shakes her head. “My lost are not important. We’re on a timetable,” she says. 

Naatha smile grows, in spite of the rebuttal. “No, dear. There’s always time for compassion, especially with the rendezvous point that’s being given to your ship.”They were Zeltron, right?

After a moment, Lassa nods. 

“You were with them for awhile, right?” Naatha asks. “Have you mourned them, in their traditions?”

Lassa shakes her head. 

“You know what it means, right? Something tells me you learned some of their ways.”

Lassa says nothing. Naatha stands on tiptoes, her lips touching Lassa’s. After a moment, Lassa opens her mouth, accepting the kiss and the older woman’s tongue. As both women pull their clothes off, Lassa realizes that she feels something much more powerful than the lust that pervades her body. 

She is calm, focusing only on the laughter and light associated with Laine Constan, Chienne, and Cona—her dead family. Naatha bears her down to the bed, the compassion mixed with the desire in her now-black eyes. 

As Naatha kisses her way down her body, Lassa thinks about her life. She realizes what she has on the _Opportunity_ —the same compassion from her captain and crew, if a bit rougher-edged. 

Naatha pauses at her belly button, then kisses the lavender curls. “You’re going to help me get my loved one out of a situation. One that I might’ve gotten her into.”

Lassa comes awake, the memory of those sensations in her mind. She realizes that another Zeltron, a much younger woman, stares down at her in the cell. 

“Time to go, Captain,” Danalaan na’Torstan’ii says. “I’ve heard from our backup.” Lassa’s eyes track to the door, trying to fight the lust from her memories. Danalaan grins at her, aware of the feelings from her own resonance. 

Another red-skinned figure steps into the cell. Her tattooed lekku twitch at the emotions in the cell. Lassa raises her eyebrows, trying to remember when the young Lethan Twi’lek had come on board. 

“Got to open the package, Danalaan,” she says. “Seems like heaven and earth is being moved for Lassa and what you’re looking for.” She grins. “Even though nobody knows what you’re looking for. 

Lassa rolls over, placing her hand on the deck. She pushes up, then realizes that two sets of arms with two different shades of red are helping her to her feet.


	11. Within his bending sickle's compass come;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A con is on, in the past and the present. Dinner with two psychopaths.

Delto Loganer starts awake, the sudden memories of his downfall from Hondo Ohnaka’s services in the forefront of his mind. He reaches over with his left hand to that side of the bed. 

Sohlwey is no longer in the bed, lying against his side. He lies back, allowing his arm to fall on the rumpled bed, allowing a tight smile to form on his lips, as he remembers Sohlwey’s tale of Lassa’s exploits in this room, with various partners. She herself had never visited the bed before, being mainly interested only in her own species—when she could spare the time. 

He shakes his head, trying to force the memory away of what had happened when he had shown his own interest in joining Lassa in her bed, shortly after she had been voted out. Loganer grimaces at the memory of the pain, then sighs as he realizes that he’ll have to get up soon. Having to get up early is one of the duties of being a captain that he has not taken to, knowing that Sohlwey would keep him apprised of any situation that was needed. 

His eyes narrow as he thinks of her expression as she keeps him apprised. She’d shown flashes of contempt at his instructions lately, but had grudgingly carried them out. He wonders if he can start looking for other officers among the remaining crew.

Loganer grits his teeth. He had only just realized that the ones who had voted him in weren’t exactly the cream of the crop when it came to crewmembers of a deep space vessel.Some small part of him wonders if that was by design. He curses his thought. He sits up reluctantly, then swings his legs out of the bed to the floor. 

There is a noise-several noises outside the hatch in the passageway. The door snaps open, before Loganer can open his mouth. 

Sohlwey stares at him, fully clothed, her combination blaster and slugthrower on her hip. She smirks as her eyes play over his nudity. There is a snort from behind her as a young Nikto female gazes at him as well. He jerks his head to the junior crewmember. After a long moment, she rolls her eyes and turns around, leaving the cabin. 

A male Rodian remains. Loganer tries to search his gauzy brain for a name. _Chihdo. That’s it_. 

“What?” Loganer asks tersely. 

“We’re missing crew,” she says. “A couple didn’t turn up at the last muster.”

“Who?” he asks, coming alert.

“A Twi’lek engineer’s mate. She joined at the last stop.”

Loganer closes his eyes. “We thought she would add some depth to that department,” flows through his mind. “There’s not a lot since Rhayme’s Wookiee left with her.” His eyes snap open, with what he hopes is enough force.. “Who else?”

“The Zeltron. Duel’s fuck-buddy.”

Loganer’s insides twist. “No,” he says.

“Yeah. The good thing is, we haven’t stopped anywhere, and there are no lifepods missing. The pinnace is still in the hangar.”

Loganer breathes out. “What do you think?” he asks quietly. He realizes that he is still standing naked next to the bed. He picks up his trousers and pulls them on as he waits for Sohlwey’s answer.

“You’re wrong on one count. I don’t think Duel and Torstan’ii are kriffing. My sources say that he’s been nothing but respectful of her—even though her nature might want more.” She grins. “It’s more likely that the Twi’lek is piquing the interest of her tongue.”

Loganer narrows her eyes at the tone. “So have you piqued her interest, En?” he asks. 

Sohlwey’s eyes narrow again. “You might want to retract those words, if you think that you still want my loyalty.” 

It’s at this moment that Delto Loganer realizes how dangerous that particular expression is on En Sohlwey’s face. He stares back at her. “Don’t threaten me, MAA,” he says, spitting out each letter of her title. “You could find yourself floating in space. Seems that if you could betray Rhayme, you’d betray me just as easily.”

She quirks one side of her mouth upwards. “More easily,” is all that she says in her reply. 

They stare at one another for several moments. The Rodian looks back and forth from them, then turns to contemplate the scars on the bulkhead, underneath the paintjob. 

“What do you want me to do, _Captain_?” the Master-at-Arms asks. Loganer shakes his head at the emphasis. 

“Find Duel. Bring him to me. I don’t care what condition he’s in, as long as he’s breathing and able to answer my questions,” he replies. 

“What the hell part does he play in this whole farce?” Sohlwey asks. 

“I don’t know if you need to know that,” Loganer retorts.

She grins—another deadly expression. “I do, if you want me to expend effort on finding him. I’m sure that I could find something more important to do.” The grins grows harder. “Or someone.”

Loganer pulls a deep breath again. “He has an ability to find something valuable—something that could set us up well to continue this little experiment in pirating. You might want to give me the benefit of the doubt. You might wind up with your throat cut next to mine, if we don’t start making some coin.”

Another staring contest ensues. He manages not to look away under her fierce gaze. 

“The Zeltron is actually the key, according to Duel. Something she has.”

After a moment, she nods. She turns without acknowledgement, and gestures to the Rodian. 

Chihdo exits the cabin. Loganer reaches out, as if to touch Sohlwey’s arm. He stops at her look. 

“We can do so much together, En,” he says. 

“Only if you can find some credits for this crew, Delto,” she replies. She takes his hand and puts it on the bare skin of her cheek. He closes his eyes, wondering if she’ll betray him. 

He realizes she is gone after several moments. He stares at the cabin door.

Loganer hopes that he can erase the stigma of that long-ago ejection from Hondo’s crew.

* * *

Ahsoka watches as Meglann shifts the _Draq’stone_ into hyperspace. The stars shift into the mass of blue. She can’t resist; she places her hand on the pilot’s shoulder, squeezing lightly with encouragement and pride, even for such a mundane operation. She can feel Meglann’s own pride flowing from her.

Beside Meglann, their own Steersman, in the parlance of Corellian mythology that this cell has adopted, Murta Locke, stares at them both. His thick mass of hair around his mouth twitches, once, twice. A grunt of approval issues from the mass as he turns back to the controls. 

_I guess that’s his version of a happy dance_ , Ahsoka thinks with her own grin. She allows the grin to fade as she turns to the two behemoths standing near the nav-table. _Well, three, if you count my own_ , nodding at Boge M’Faru, Murta’s constant companion.

“Okay, you’ve given us some insight into the what happened in the War,” Ahsoka says, looking at Rhayme. “How does this help us now? I’m not even sure what we’re doing now—whether we’re helping the Zeltrons, finding a doo-dad, or finding Lassa.” She looks down at the thought of her friend. 

Her eyes widen as Sorentin Rhayme places his large hand on her cheek, his own bronze eyes knowing. He grins—an expression she shares after a moment. “We’re working on Lassa,” he says. “There’s a couple of avenues open to us. But we have to let something else play out. I’m waiting on a call.”

After a moment, she nods. “You better be right, old man. You and your thug,” she says, her eyes lightening her words as she nods at Gral. 

He stares back at her, one side of his mouth quirking upwards. She thinks of the complicated relationship with him—mostly ending with her bleeding in some way and he secured in binders, waiting to see if she’s going to forget the principles of her youth and cut him with her lightsaber, or just cut him with sarcasm. 

Ahsoka turns away, then picks up her comm. She touches a familiar avatar, waiting for it to connect through the ship’s hyperspace comm console. Her eyebrow markings raise as the transmission switches to message function. She notices Meglann’s face grow still with concern, probably at her own expression. 

She doesn’t try that code again; she moves to another selection, this one with the symbol of Naboo beside it.

The same result. Meglann jerks her head over to Boge, who moves over to the communications console. Rhayme, out of curiosity, moves over as well. 

“What?” Boge asks. 

“Can you track Covenant’s and Nola’s comms?” Meglann asks. 

Boge’s eyes grow skeptical as Murta snorts from the pilots’ area. “I’m a pretty decent navigator, and I can turn the comm console on and off,” he replies. 

“Great,” Meglann says. “What about you, boss?” she asks Ahsoka.

Ahsoka feels her eyes narrow at the nickname—one that she’s eschewed ever since the Jedi Order and the Republic had managed to convince her that she didn’t need those types of job descriptions, such as ‘boss’, ‘skipper’, or more formally, ‘Commander’. 

There is a a cleared throat, one with a distinctive Pantoran accent. Sorentin Rhyame steps in between them and a console. “I can do a little bit, but I may need help from a certain antisocial little shit who works for my former boss.”

“Ano Lessi,” Ahsoka and Meglann say at the same time.

“Oh, so you know her? You’ve been insulted by text?”

“Yeah, a certain someone happens to be ‘married’ to that former boss of yours,” Meglann responds, pointing at Ahsoka.

“Ahh, so you’re the mysterious ‘Jana Roshti’,” Rhayme says with a smirk. “Glad that the good Senator is getting her all of her parts taken care of.”

Ahsoka pointedly ignores all of them as Rhayme sits down. Kruvure produces a datapad. There is the chime of a text over the ship’s system. 

Rhayme doesn’t respond to what is undoubtedly a questioning of his parentage and use for the galaxy. 

Ahsoka looks at him as his brow wrinkles. She breathes out, waiting, refraining from tapping him on the top of his head. 

With her lightsaber butt.

Meglann notices and is less patient. “What?” she asks pointedly. 

“Ano’s found them. Apparently she was tracking them already. She can’t tell exactly, but she can tell that their comm’s passive signals are surrounded by a lot of others. Others of one distinct type.” He pushes a button. Both Nola’s and Bryne’s avatars come up; both are grayed out. Ahsoka draws breath as she sees the other icons. 

Imperial cogs. 

“Yep,” Sorentin says. “Lots of them, but all linked together. Like in an Imperial ship. A big one.”

“The _Resurgent_ ,” Ahsoka breathes out. 

A holo springs up, official looking. Her heart stops when she sees the two likenesses in the Imperial records. 

Both listing the bearers as reserve ISB Agents, based upon their local status. Covenant’s more modern face—at least one that presents to most every one else is shown. 

She is maybe one of the few, if not the only one who sees him as he truly is, as his face looks in the mirror to himself. She wonders if that’s changed since the Affirmation of the other Links. The true remnant of his primary Jedi Shadow power—something known as the Face-Dance. Something almost instinctive, along with his shielding. 

She scrolls upwards, past Nola’s shorter entry. She breaths a sigh of relief as she sees the results of a certain test for him, one that with higher numbers, could bring instant execution. 

The numbers are very low—indicating that he has almost no Force ability. She wonders if this is a product of a recent test, or products of his DNA sequence manipulated by certain very talented slicers. Especially one who had shared that life with them both. 

Another holo pops up, showing Bryne on the bridge of an Imperial Star Destroyer—a layout not much different from an old Republic version. She feels her anger grow; she manages to stifle it as she sees Bryne’s hand tapping the gray-green trousers in a certain fashion, where the two Imperial officers can’t see.

_I’m okay, Runt. Going to do what we can to provide cover for you. Check Jana’s funeral order._

_Alchernon_.

At that, the picture disappears. 

“It’s okay, Fulcrum,” Rhayme says quietly. “Ano says Touchstone wiped this before anyone else could see it; he replaced it with a loop from before.”

A text appears in the holo-field. A series of coordinates. 

Ano’s face appears superimposed on the coordinates. “It’s in the Azdriel sector, Jana,” she says quietly, surprising everyone with actual speech. “It’s where Covenant’s friend Jana Sloane asked to be buried in space. A place that meant something to her, apparently.”

Ahsoka nods after a moment, knowing what Jana had meant to Covenant. A naval officer who had died over Coruscant. A naval officer who had helped shape him into what and who he is today. 

The older sister of the naval officer that Nola Vorserrie was trying to turn.

Ahsoka curses as she focuses on Covenant’s ID holo in the Imperial uniform. She feels her anger spike. Meglann looks at her with concern. “It’s okay, babe,” she says. “Nola’s there. Plus it looks like he has some official Imperial paper.”

“He could be more goddamned careful,” Ahsoka retorts, “both of them could.”

She stops herself as she sees Meglann’s expression—the almost painful eyeroll. 

“Do you listen to yourself? You don’t have one millimeter of a room to talk, Fulcrum,” she says with an edge to her own voice.

Ahsoka closes her mouth. 

**The Past**

Lassa walks onto the bridge of the _Opportunity_. She looks around at the familiar surroundings, the crew sitting at their stations. Her eyes narrow as she notices a restiveness amongst them—coiled, waiting, and apprehensive. She looks around for Mal, wondering where he might be. 

“He’s below in his quarters,” the duty pilot says. His own eyes narrow at her, a tiny bit of something besides the aforementioned restiveness. 

Anger.

She walks over to him, making sure that he can see her hand moving close to the cross-draw rig. 

“You have something to add, Jentin?” she asks quietly. She has been told that when she is angry, her Pantoran accent, with its sharp vowels, becomes more pronounced. Apparently Jentin is familiar with that trait. He sits back in the pilot’s chair and rotates back to his board.

She can still feel the restiveness, though. 

Lassa turns and stares at the rest of the bridge crew. She wonders if its just these half-dozen or so, or if she would walk through any of the spaces and compartments and find the same anger and coiled waiting. As she exits the bridge, she focuses on their hands. 

The thumb and forefingers on everyone’s left hand, are placed precisely in a broken circle, the tips not quite touching. 

The sign of an impending vote out of the captain, according to an unwritten portion of the Code.

She makes her way to the Captain’s quarters. En Sohlwey is standing outside the door. The Weequay’s arms are crossed, her eyes on Lassa’s. 

“Quartermaster,” she says formally, in her grating voice. Lassa nods and replies, “Master-at-Arms.”

They stare at one another for a moment, then relax. “What’s going on, Lassa? I can’t seem to reach him,” Sohlwey asks. 

“I don’t know. All we can do is trust him. I think all of y’all have been doing it longer than I have.”

Sohlwey gives one of her patented half-smile, half-grimaces. “I know. I’m glad that you’re looking out for him, little girl,” she says, “but I think it may take more than your charm and understanding. The crew is losing confidence in him.”

Lassa is about to turn away, but stops. “I know. I’m trying to keep him focused on this latest caper. It has the potential for a big payoff. The Smugglers’ Guild of Corellia seems to be pretty damned flush with credits.”

Sohlwey nods. “Yeah. But this whole thing seems kind of fuzzy. Are we actually going up against the Seppies? Are we getting involved in the Republic’s war?”

Lassa shakes her head. “I think we’re only getting involved in one small portion of it. The Corellians are trying to stay out of it, but they’re a little less partial to the Seppies.” She reaches up and touches the rope scar between and slightly above her collarbones. “Just like me,” she says quietly. 

Sohlwey looks at her, then reaches out and touches the blemish. “Okay. I think that this crew might look to you, Lassa. You’re a good Quartermaster. You’ve had no trouble calling Mal on his bullshit, when it was needed.” Her expression darkens as she drops her hand from Lassa’s neck. She steps away from the hatch. 

Lassa walks through the door. Her eyes adjust to the dim light. She looks at Mal Dolros, lying on the large bed, reading a datapad.

She feels her anger spark as she realizes that he isn’t reading anything, but playing a game. She crosses the room and seizes the ‘pad, when he doesn’t respond to her.

“Look. I’m trying to keep your useless ass from being voted out. You could meet me halfway,” she says. A part of her is shocked at her anger, at the disrespect. 

He looks up at her. “I didn’t think I needed to guide you. You have everything in hand. You’ll be able to make chicken salad out of chickenshit with no problem,” he finally says. 

She feels her anger spike at his response. Lassa takes a deep breath. “I have the coordinates. The contact says we’re headed to the ass end of the Azdriel sector, not just the system. We’re going to rendezvous with some takers. We’re to back them up; we’ll split the profit.”

“What do you think?” Mal asks. 

“I think we should get there first. We can probably handle it.” She stares at him. “That may be the only way that we actually break even on this job.”

He nods. “We’ll see. I don’t know if we want to cross anyone involved in this.” At that, he picks up the datapad that she had dropped.

She feels the tears of anger build in her eyes as she exits the cabin. 

The crew seems to stare at her accusingly as she passes them.

* * *

Dani watches as Ladiana— _no, Ardalen_ , works on the navicomputer of the freighter. There is a slight shift in her reality as the _Moonshadow_ emerges from hyperspace for an instant, then immediately jumps again. 

Ardalen sits back. Dani’s apparent adopted aunt turns and runs her gaze over Dani’s curious expression. She reaches out and takes Dani’s left hand—her strong hand in hers. She starts to massage the palm with her other. 

Dani knows that it’s impossible, that even though Ardalen has been trained by a Zeltron, she has no resonance. But the younger woman can feel the touch easing her, relaxing the tension that she’d felt since she’d woken up in the hands of someone who’d stunned her. 

Even someone who might be family, in some strange fashion. 

“So what is this thing that you’re trying to do for my world?” Dani asks, placing her own hand over Ardalen’s.

“Something that your grandmother started. A certain object needs its power replaced, so that Zeltros can continue to function as a democratic world. The Seppies, in the person of a certain psychopathic scientist were working on something that could have changed the war. She wasn’t having a lot of success, but as a byproduct, she found a great deal of the substance that could replace that power. It’s a very rare substance, but Jenna Zan Arbor found enough of it to last a millenia or two. A certain engineer on the project figured out that her boss wasn’t making a lot of progress on the main project, but was stringing her bosses along.”

Ardalen pauses and reaches back down into the bodice of her jumpsuit, pulling the flask out. She opens it, takes a swig, then hands it to Dani, who carries out her own appreciation of a product from the family of her father’s wife—the family of a certain ex-Jedi as well.

“Zan Arbor’s bosses weren’t exactly the types that would take stringing along very well. In fact, the whole thing could’ve resulted in a great deal of bloodshed,” Ardalen continues. 

Dani smiles ruefully. “Yeah. I know. I was on the receiving end of some of her main boss’s ‘goodwill’,” she adds. 

Ardalen nods, her eyes warm with sympathy. “That engineer met him one time. Let’s just say that was enough to make her realize that she’d made a mistake, thinking that the Confederacy was a better alternative to the Republic.”

Dani raises the charcoal eyebrow over her left eye, at something in Ardalen’s tone. She nods. “So you were an engineer, as well?” she asks nonchalantly. 

Ardalen’s eyes close, but she nods. “Yeah,” she says. “Abeeyeh got me into an apprenticeship program on Fondor. I apparently had a natural aptitude for it, among other things.”

Dani smiles at the use of the Zeltron word. _Mother_. She feels her heart twinge at the look of pain, at the mention of another world—a world in competition with her own Corellia, but one with a connection to her family of choice. She files that emotion for later.

“You were a Separatist for awhile,” Dani asks. It’s not a question. 

“Yeah. It took me watching Dooku strangle another scientist on the project to know that my idealism might’ve been misplaced. I was able to contact abeeyeh, who set the universe in motion to get me out of there. I gave her some information about the project. She was able to recognize the element she needed for her world.”

Dani laughs. “She sounds like someone else that I know. Someone who can move the universe, either through skill or sheer stubbornness.” She shakes her head. “Several someones.”

Ardalen joins her in the laughter. “I think that I know who you’re talking about. Some sort of reptile. Abeeyeh and he are two peas in a pod. Like the Dragon, she started out with nothing. She was a smuggler, then graduated to piracy, before becoming important to her world—leaving all of that behind.” Her grin widens, striking Dani’s heart again with its openness and pure kindness. “I’m sure that Naatha had to make sure that Draq’ was worthy of her daughter, even though they were estranged. Perhaps even a test ride.” The last is said with such nonchalance, that Dani chokes on the sip of whisky she was taking. She closes her eyes to scrub her mind of that thought. _Must be the Corellian side,_ she thinks. _The Zeltron should’ve had no problem with that._

Dani’s smile fades as she feels the sadness and grief flow back into Ardalen’s emotional signature. Ardalen gives a shuddering breath, then curses under her breath. Dani reaches out and pulls her closer, allowing her lips to play over the older woman’s neck. She focuses her resonance, her own thoughts to Ardalen.

“I’m glad you’ve forgiven your abeeyeh, Daaineran,” she whispers, moving her lips to Dani’s ear. The life that I’ve led—” She stops, gathering herself. “I’ve had to leave two children behind because of threats to them. Threats that could’ve cost them their lives.”

Dani’s eyes widen in horror. “One who I know is safe on Fondor, with her father’s family. She thinks that I’m dead, along with him in a racing accident.”

“And the other?”

Ardalen shakes her head. “I don’t know. Abeeyeh made sure she was safe.” She grits her teeth. “That’s what I get for trusting someone—someone who helped me escape from the first threat, but then was a threat to me because of his own ambition. An ambition to rule his own homeworld.” She takes the flask from Dani and drinks.

“So where’s the other child?” Dani asks. 

“On Mandalore. Mother found someone that she trusted to foster her. I’ve stayed away, but I’d like to be in her life. Without her father’s desire to rule Alderaan destroying our happiness.”

Dani starts with recognition. Ardalen notices. “You know who I’m talking about?” she asks, incredulous.

“I might. He’s been a plague on several worlds,” Dani replies, her own anger growing. “He’s a threat to another young woman who also refused to be a brood mare for him. My foster-sister.”

Ardalen nods, is about to speak, when the navicomputer beeps. Dani allows her to turn back to the controls. 

Dani stares at the destruction and chaos of hyperspace. She thinks of her world—of her family of the heart and its connection to others. 

Small fucking galaxy, she thinks.

* * *

Bryne sips his caf as he watches Enolo sign the datapad that a yeoman had handed to her. He had to admit, that she and her crew knew what they were doing. Enolo carried out her duties with a surprising amount of humor, one he wouldn’t have believed possible, based on his knowledge and experience of Imperial officers. 

At least until you factor in the thought of the young woman waiting to die in a cell in the brig. He had tried to throw his ‘magistrate’ weight around to visit her, but Enolo hadn’t budged on that one thing. 

That and the fact that Enolo and Bouva have a somewhat lucrative racket of shaking down various ships in their patrol area for protection. At least those that were on that line of legality or ‘disorder’.

An officer walks up and whispers in Enolo’s ear. Bryne watches has her handsome face turns dark, with narrowed eyes. She jerks her head at Covenant to follow her. 

Bryne decides to obey, out of curiosity, if nothing else. As he does, he thinks of Jana Sloane’s younger sister. Rae had been excused from duty to look after Nola’s needs in the sickbay. So far, she’d given no sign of recognition from their brief meeting years ago, as she had followed Jana’s coffin up the ramp of the _Consular_ , to take her home—to a certain location in space. 

Which meant that he and Nola weren’t sitting in a cell, waiting to join Ensign Kozume in front of the firing squad. His Face-Dance remnant is still working, even with his shitty Force sense at play. He smiles to himself as he thinks of the obvious respect and even _affection_ that her Captain and even the stormtrooper Commander, Bouva shows the young officer. 

Even when Rae had challenged her. He had already witnessed it, where Rae had given her opinion on the coordinates that they had received from Zan Arbor. She’d been suspicious of them from the outset. 

_She should_ , Bryne thinks. _Seeing how they might have been altered a bit. He smiles to himself. Not that I’d know anything about that_. His smile fades as he thinks of the effect that this particular location might have on Rae Sloane. He begs for forgiveness from the vision of Jana Sloane in his head for the pain he might inflict on her little sister.

He stops at a command holotank in a secluded corner of the Resurgent’s bridge. A woman in a white uniform, her blonde hair swept back from a high forehead stares at them with eyes that are slightly demented in their cast. He returns her frank appraisal; she gazes at him with a look from his face down to his middle. He doesn’t flinch, but narrows his eyes. 

Noar Zan Arbor dismisses him from her thoughts and turns her gaze to the naval officer. Bryne can sense the anger from Enolo, anger at being knocked back and forth between her and one other.

“Report, Captain,” Zan Arbor barks. Bryne smirks as he can almost hear Enolo’s teeth grinding. 

“We’re on our way to the coordinates received. We’ll observe what’s going on and report back to you.”

“Very well. It’s good to see a naval officer who’s actually obedient to my orders and wishes,” Zan Arbor says. “Have you heard from Dorith Panteer?”

Enolo breathes out. “Yes. I’m technically still under his administrative control. I had to send him my change orders.”

Noar’s eyes flash, adding to the demented quality. Just as quickly, she calms. “Very well. Make sure that you keep my name out of it as much as possible. It’s quite possible that he might’ve betrayed my mother’s earlier research.”

“Would that be before or after your mother slaughtered Republic troops?” Bryne asks. 

The eyes move back to him. “Ahh. We have a crusader here. Let me guess. Republic Navy?”

“Nope. CorSec Rangers. Deep cover.”

Bryne senses Enolo’s eyes widen, the look is one of almost being impressed.

Almost.

“See that you keep your pet Corellian on a leash, Captain. It would be unfortunate for him to have an accident,” Zan Arbor says. 

“He won’t. Not unless I need for him to,” Phyllida replies. She kills the connection to the scientist’s outraged face.

“I hate dealing with Seppies and their spawn,” she says. She turns to Bryne. “Your fixer is going to be in the sickbay for awhile. Would you like to join my buckethead and me for dinner?”

Bryne is silent for a moment. “I could eat,” he says. 

“Good to know, Major,” she replies. “We might even get some food in, as well.” She smirks. “Commander Bouva has prodigious appetites. She’s quite a connoisseur of Corellians.” She touches his arm gently. “Don’t worry. Nola survived dinner with us. I think she even enjoyed herself.”

 _Yeah, except for the part about gloating about murder_ , he thinks as he follows her to the elevator.


	12. Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A scrumrat’s dreams, a Captain’s dilemma in the past, and a secret toy surprise. Imperial medical ethics. A warrior and another Captain of the past solves a dilemma of the present.

Naatha Betenn’ii moves through Rik Duel’s dreams—not in the way that an observer would think, but as a mentor. One who had given him a chance—a scrum rat with no future from Coronet’s dark streets. 

He remembers his hand in her pocket, finding some type of case there. One that had felt valuable. He’d only had his fingers on it for a moment, before a warm, bare hand had closed on his. His heart had dropped to his bare feet as his mind contemplated a dozen different fates, none of them good. 

He’d never expected what he got. The Zeltron woman’s purple eyes—a shade that he’d never known the name for until later, looked at him with a mixture of amusement and warmth. She had kept hold of his hand, but her other hand had moved to his dirty cheek, softly stroking it with a smile on her face.

It had taken him a few years to identify the feelings that were surging over him—something an eight year old couldn’t quite grasp. All that he knew was that he felt safe and comfortable for the first time in his life when she had looked at him and asked what his name was.

The safety and comfort had only risen when his Grindalid keeper had confronted both of them. She hadn’t hesitated when the thug had grabbed his other hand. A quick kick to his face had removed the protective mask, yanking a scream as the dim sunlight struck his face. 

A blast from a hidden pistol had broken his arm after he had blindly drawn his own blaster and opened fire. She had watched with more amusement as the Grindalid had smashed into a wall as he ran away. 

“Hello, little one,” she had said. “You look like you could use a meal. I’m hungry, too. Let’s go.” The smile grows even warmer. “My name’s Naatha. What’s yours?”

Duel’s mind flashes forward to a meeting on Zeltros several years later, after he had left Naatha and her employment behind. A much younger version—he’d learned a bit more about being able to tell the ages of Zeltrons is in his vision, dressed in the light, revealing clothing of her people, sitting down at a table next to his. He had been watching two cops— _Acolyte-Bailiffs_ , as they were known on this world, making sure that they might not be looking for a Corellian fugitive from a stint in the Gaol. 

The young woman’s willowy beauty hadn’t been the first thing that he had noticed; he’d been exposed to that since that day a dozen years ago on a Corellian street. 

It had been the small boxlike device that the young woman had placed on the table. A shiny disk reflecting a brighter sunlight than Corellia’s smog-covered version. An object first felt, rather than seen, in the pocket of a confident, powerful older Zeltron. 

He had seen the object on a few occasions after that first meeting. Naatha had made sure it was not far from her person. 

Only after talking to Danalaan Torstan—once she had figured out he wasn’t trying to chat her up, had he realized the significance of that object. 

An object that may have started he and others on a long winding journey—one that had united some and separated others. Including him from Naatha and her warmth and care—as well as her exacting example.

Something he hadn’t taken to.

A hard object strikes his back and his head, waking him from the dream—snapping him back into reality. The pain is only brief, as he shakes his head. He realizes that he hadn’t been struck by anything; he had actually struck the deck of the berthing space. 

He stares up at the hard face of the Master-at-Arms, a being that he hadn’t exactly impressed when he had come on board, along with Danalaan. It could be that he hadn’t exactly been able to articulate his skills. He’d been assigned to the navigation department, which was in disarray at the departure of Thyla Secura after Lassa’s voteout.

“Get up,” she says. “Captain wants to see you.”

It’s the person behind Sohlwey that sparks something other than confusion. 

Chihdo stands over him as well, looking at him with an unreadable expression. His concern at being summoned to the Captain’s presence is dwarfed by his anger at Chihdo standing behind the MAA.

“What the hell has that son of a bitch told you?” he asks, jabbing his finger at the Rodian. He jumps up, realizing that he’s standing in his underwear.

Sohlwey takes a step back. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, scum,” he says. “It might have something to do with your girlfriend being missing.” He stares balefully at Chihdo, who shakes his head. 

“You feeling guilty, Duel?” he asks.

Rik manages to find his pants and pull them on, the MAA looking at him with a smirk. “Only in trusting a piece of shit like you, Chihdo,” he says. 

He’s given just enough time to pull his shirt on before Sohlwey loses her patience and yanks him from the compartment. He is shoved against Chihdo, who shoves him back 

Chihdo swings his fist. Duel manages to block it, then swings his own blow. He isn’t able to connect as his body—in particular his nervous system lights up with fire. He is able to see that Chihdo is convulsing in pain as well. His vision sees a tiny residue of electric blue in the air, just as Sohlwey lowers her blaster. 

Duel is once again on the floor. He manages to see Sohlwey turn to someone standing in the corridor. He tries to speak as he sees Danalaan and a red-skinned Twi’lek standing there, looking at him with something like contempt. 

“Great. Now we’ll have to carry their asses,” Danalaan says.

“No,” Sohlwey says. “We know where they’ll be. We’ll come back for them.”

The Twi’lek chimes in. “Think it’s time to go open the package and get this whole thing over with.”

Duel’s consciousness fades as he tries to figure out who is who in this whole caper. 

He can’t even figure out who he is in it.

**The Past**

Mal nods to the various crew members as he walks down the passageways. As he greets them, he silently curses them—not for anything they’d done, but rather something they’d not done. 

They had refused to let him go. He stops for a moment, realizing he has entered the reactor room. His eyes move over the annihilation of fuel, the bright blue and red bursts of light. He smiles—this is something that he could never get enough of seeing. He would often come aft when he needed to do some serious thinking. _He shakes his head. Not that I’ve ever done too much serious thinking. Only my Quartermaster does that._

He smiles as he thinks of Lassa’s skeptical face as he outlined this latest caper. He knows that she has been thinking about the consequences of failure; his failure to produce enough credits to keep the ship and crew afloat. Or at least his own captaincy. 

He runs his hands through his thinning hair. Lassa Rhayme, in spite of being only twenty-two years old, had impressed him from the time that they had met. She had impressed the crew—much more so than the former Quartermaster—one who had kriffed up so badly that Mal and the crew had been reluctant to fill the position.

Until a young backup pilot had managed to get them out of a trap from a Republic revenue cutter. Mal had stood back, watching as Lassa had not only piloted them out of the firing solution of the cutter, but had directed—no, led—the crew out of the trap, maneuvering to a newly formed hyperspace route. One of the Republic’s own, that she’d managed to inspire his useless signals midshipman into finding and slicing the access codes. 

The new navigator, Thyla Secura and her twin, Thorin, had been the first to stand up and offer her name as Quartermaster.

The vote had been unanimous. 

If only he could get the twins to see that it’s time for him to step down. Those blasted Articles—coupled with the Code, had made it clear that he wasn’t able to step down. Not unless he either screwed up, or offered up a payday that would equal all of the other paydays that the crew had enjoyed under his captaincy.

 _Trapped by his own success_ , he thinks. He can only hope this job can do one of the other—it has the potential for both. 

The previous, and first captain had managed to buy off the crew with the latter option, plus set herself up as a respectable businesswoman and philanthropist on her world. He smirks. _If only that world and the galaxy as a whole only knew._

He nods as he thinks about Lassa’s description of the mysterious Guildmaster. Apparently the Zeltron couldn’t stop meddling. A woman that knows better than most about the right time to leave the Blood Bone Order. 

He curses himself as he realizes that he’s almost passed the time of the meeting. He moves out of the reactor space towards a little used passageway, one that he can feel the heat of the engines as almost a living thing.

Mal stops in front of a small panel inset into the bulkhead. He wipes sweat from his broad forehead and then closes his eyes. He touches his palm to a hidden panel. 

The hatch snaps open. A Rodian sits there, seemingly comfortable in the hot, steamy air.

“You ready?” Mal asks. 

“I guess I am,” Chihdo says. “Not exactly sure for what, though.”

“You’re my insurance policy. Didn’t your buddy the Guildmaster tell you?” Mal answers, his eyes narrowing. 

Chihdo, in spite of his immobile facial features, somehow gives the impression of a smirk. “We don’t talk that much. My contact with them was pretty minimal. I’m dealing with a couple of layers of middlemen. Namely an overrated Pantoran General, who seems to now be dealing with a teenaged Corellian scrumrat.”

“Just so you’re ready to move. I need to make sure this thing goes south enough for me to finally retire,” Mal says. 

Chihdo’s antennae twitch. “I’ve been told by many that I can fuck up a wet dream. So I oughta be able to take care of your problem.”

“Tell me the plan again.”

“Easy. You jump into the shit with the other parties to this thing. Either you’re able to pull the job off, or you fail and get nothing. It may be that you pull off the job and still get nothing.”

“Your boss tells me that the little doodad could be pretty lucrative, seeing how it’s able to show you the way for things that are more valuable.”

Chihdo doesn’t respond. Mal stares at him. “What?” he asks. 

“Nothing. Just get out of here and let me do this job,” Chihdo replies. 

After a moment, Mal Dolros nods and then turns away. The hatch closes, leaving Chihdo to his thoughts. 

Chihdo makes good use of the time. Dolros has just told him what he’s been told by the Guildmaster. The ‘need-to-know’. He picks up his comm.

Sorentin Rhyame’s face fills the small compartment. “It’s in motion. The pirates are on their way; they should cause a distraction if needed,” Chihdo says.

Rhayme nods. “Make sure that nothing happens to them. If anything does, Grifter, there won’t be a place in the universe that you can hide from me.”

“Relax, Rhayme,” Chihdo says. “This ain’t my first scam. I know my job.”

“You’d better. The Guildmaster needs the substance, as well as the engineer. The Republic needs to find out what the Seps are up to. Corellia is just the vehicle for the whole thing—the cover. You’re a greedy little bastard who needs a payday. Everybody does their part, everybody gets what they want. Except maybe the Seppies. Hell. They may figure out that their little scientific endeavor isn’t worth the money.”

Chihdo clicks off. After several moments, he pulls another comm out. The face that fills the room is not exactly the stuff of dreams. An OOM-class tactical droid stares impassively at him. 

_Time to do my part. The one that everyone expects of me._

* * *

Nola opens her eyes slowly. After a half-second of staring at what the Imperial medical droid is doing to her left pinky finger, she wishes that she hadn’t, so she snaps them shut again. She feels a cool, wet cloth move over her forehead; she is able to open her eyes again. 

She smiles as she looks at the bearer of the cloth’s face above hers. Rae Sloane looks down at her with an even expression, but one with worry and concern in the dark eyes. Nola feels the droid move away. She chances a look at her finger. It still rests at an angle that nature never intended for a human, but the pain has eased. 

The thought of pain bring her eyes down to her shoulder. She realizes that it is no longer strapped down, just the finger is in some sort of strange splint to keep it immobile, with a slight jolt of electricity every dozen seconds or so. 

The droid’s impersonal voice—even more cold than a non-Imperial one speaks up. “Your shoulder should have a full range of motion in another week or so. I am interested in that particular mix of hyperbacta that I found remnants of. The Empire could use that and there isn’t enough to duplicate. I have at least two officers who have bacta allergies such as yours on this ship alone.”

Nola feels her eyes flash at the droid. _Just the officers, horrorshow?_ she thinks to herself. Rae stares at her eyes, then nods with a slight smile. She turns and looks hard at the droid. The droid somehow gets the message and continues without pushing. “Your finger is more difficult. The concentration of hyperbacta was on the shoulder with its major joints. If you’d been able to treat it with more than a splint, we might be able to get it back into place a bit easier.”

_Yeah, that’s what happens when Dek had to improvise with the ingredients of the hyperbacta, for my allergy. We didn’t have enough for the shoulder and the finger, not without me being out of commission for longer._

She looks up and nods at the droid, hoping he’ll get the hint. He doesn’t. “I’m fine,” she says, “I don’t need that finger for too much. I’m a shitty greenputt player and I’ll never play the valachord. I especially don’t need it on a speederbike throttle, or,” at this she gives Rae a hooded look, “to take anybody to the moon. I’ve got nine other fingers for that.”

 _Good thing that I can channel my inner Bryne Covenant, or Dani Faygan_ , she thinks, remembering the jokes that he’d given as his ring finger was reattached. Jokes that Ahsoka had shared, but not without a look of worry in her blue eyes. Worry and gratitude that he was alive. 

For an instant, she sees something other than concern in Rae’s eyes—not what the suggestiveness might bring, either. True sadness and regret, even sympathy shows, similar to Ahsoka’s. 

It’s gone after a moment. “I’m sure whoever you’re trying to take to the moon will be able to find something else to combat the boredom that those nine fingers are bringing.” She grins. “We do have a miniputt course on the ship. I’m sure I could kick your ass at that.”

The droid seems to be vibrating as it tries to decipher what they had been talking about. “Ahh, you’re using humor to talk about copulation—fascinating. I—”

“Dismissed,” Rae says shortly. The droid stops short and turns away to its other duties. 

Rae pulls up a chair and moves around to her right side. She sits down and takes Nola’s uninjured hand in hers. Nola concentrates on the touch of her skin. She realizes that Rae doesn’t wear her full uniform, just the trousers and boots. Her torso is clad in a pure white exercise singlet, a top that puts her muscular arms and shoulders on display. 

Nola takes a deep breath, shoving the thoughts of those arms and shoulders, along with the smooth skin away. _Friends, No-no. Just friends. The ‘benefits’ that we explored a little bit of on Alderaan aren’t what’s needed now._

She steels herself for what she’s about to to say, knowing what it takes from her, knowing that she is giving a bit of herself away for the cause. _To restore the Republic_ , she thinks. 

“I’m sorry, Rae,” she says quietly. “I’m sorry that it felt like I used you. I just had to get something done. Something that could help people.” She realizes after she speaks that she’s holding her breath, waiting for Rae’s response. She wonders if she’s waiting for what it might mean for her, or for the Republic’s cause.

“Sometimes you can’t save the universe, No-no,” Rae whispers. “Things have to be done by the numbers. It’s what order means. I believe that you would’ve been able to get the help you needed without disrupting anything, if you’d come to me.”

Nola’s anger flares. She manages to keep it in check, realizing that she, at least for a brief time—hopefully—is technically speaking to a superior officer. “Then it might’ve come weeks after whoever I was helping needed it.” She breathes out, then reaches up and brings Rae’s knuckles to her lips. “Not you Rae, but you work within that ‘order’. I don’t have that luxury. I’m trying to help as many people as I can.”

Rae stares at her, but continues to hold her hand. Nola can see that there might be a struggle going on inside of her—a struggle that the memory of her older sister, Jana Sloane has initiated, based on what Bryne, Dani, and Ahsoka—even Meglann from a brief meeting as a child had said. Jana had brought news of Meglann’s mother’s death at Ryloth and had made an impression on the grief-stricken ten-year old.

The memory of a woman who’d followed a Jedi then known as Taliesin Croft back to Coruscant with three Star Destroyers, only on his shaky authority. To make a point about injustice. The injustice of the Republic about to sentence a young Jedi to death. 

Rae looks down, then back in to Nola’s eyes. “Maybe so. But I’m hoping that you get a glimpse of what the Empire can do for people, within the system. For those who are willing to live within that system.”

Nola’s heart sinks. _Maybe she doesn’t know what Jana was willing to do. Maybe she only sees what the Republic’s corruption at the end did for the galaxy, rather than the potential for individuals to make a difference._

Maybe there were too few individuals then to fight the rising tide.

Her eyes fall on something on the bed next to her. A drab, green-gray uniform, folded on the blanket, a breastplate on top of it. A single bar of an Imperial second lieutenant showing on it.

The field uniform of an ISB agent.

* * *

Ahsoka moves through the waves of the Force. She feels the hard deck beneath her knees, but beyond that, her only sensation is that of stars—stars in a particular pattern, that she has never seen before. She syncs her heartbeat with that of the energy pulses of the nearest ones, allowing her Togruta-rapid heartbeat to slow even more than her usual meditation allows. 

She hears the warm, drawling voice in her mind, through the pulses of the stars. She has found that during the deepest meditation, she is able to truly communicate with her hunt-brother, if he is able to. Ahsoka isn’t sure if it is a true Force bond or not, they’d never had to establish a bond as clan-master and student. She wonders if it has anything to do with the fact that they might be the only two surviving Force users that don’t wear the Imperial cog, nor have the darkness swirling around them. 

“It doesn’t matter, Runt,” her Bryne-voice says. “We’re alive. While we wish others could be, we have to keep focusing on that fact.”

She manages to stifle the sob in her mind. “I know, _ie’ar_ ,” she responds, using the diminutive for a deep affection for him. She feels his emotions sing at the sound of those simple syllables, with the complex trills in mixed in with them. His crooked grin is what trips her heart, always one of promise and deep connection. 

“So why the hell are you on an ImpStar with Imperial IDs?” she asks, hoping that the pointed phrasing comes across in his mind. 

It apparently does. She feels the rueful quality of his response. “Sounded like the smart thing to do at the time. I think that the Captain of the ISD was headed in that direction for Nola. I think she wanted to put her under discipline. I could use the magistrate mojo to at least protect her.”

Ahsoka nods after a moment. She feels her mind giggle at what comes next. “I think Delilah Sal might be going to serve her own active duty stint. I think she wants me to come along to carry her luggage.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s what she wants you for, bud,” she says acerbically. “She might be handling something of yours, other than your luggage.” She glares at him in her mind. “You make sure you take a shower afterwards.”

Their laughter rises in their minds. As it does, both of them get a little tinge of some of the remnants of what they had felt in the days after Felucia and their contact with the Asundrance. Neither of them can figure out what the emotions are, whether they are remembrances of Shaak Ti and their brief exposure to what had been taken from her during an earlier mission with Croft to the world, or if it was the Asundrance itself. Something they had defeated, with the help of the most loving person in the universe. 

Ahsoka feels Bryne start to fade. “I have to go. I’m having dinner with Enolo and the Bouva. I’m hoping I can get out of there with my balls intact.”

“See that you do, Bait,” she says. “I’m kinda partial to those. Just maybe not as much as your heart and that grin.”

She feels his nod. “See that you get to those coordinates soon. There should be a package there for you. One that will be very pissed off in the manner of his delivery.

“I miss you,” is the last sensation she receives from him.

Ahsoka feels her heart twist as his consciousness fades. “I miss you, too, love,” she whispers aloud as her eyes come open. 

Meglann and Rhayme come into the small cargo hold, her preferred place for meditation and lightsaber forms. 

“We’re here,” Meglann says. She holds out her hand. Ahsoka takes it and levers herself up. Her lightsabers drop onto the hooks on her belt. 

“I’ve got the coordinates for the rest of this caper,” Rhayme says as they exit the hold. “From the Clone Wars. But it sounds like someone else’ll be taking care of the other two parts of this whole thing. We’re kind of sidelined.”

Ahsoka nods. “I know. But I think we’ll be sidelined for good reason. The same for Bryne and Nola,” she says. “We’ve got a package to pick up.” At that precise moment, Meglann’s comm dings. 

“Apparently it’s here, she says. “It’s also a bit put out.” She lifts her comm. “Bring it aboard, Murta,” she orders. 

“It’s that small?” Ahsoka asks with curiosity. 

“Oh yeah,” Meglann says. “It can almost fit in your pocket. Not that you’d want it there.”

Ahsoka closes her eyes as the package stares at them balefully from the tiny, single person lifepod.

“I’m going to kick Covenant’s ass for this when I see him,” Phygus Baldrick says. He smirks at Ahsoka and Meglann. “Somebody owes me a look at their boobs, for this indignity.”

Meglann’s eyes widen. “Did this little shit just say what I think he did?” she asks with incredulity.

“Yes, dear, he did,” Ahsoka says. She looks at the slicer. “Be nice, little man. I’m sure that Bryne will show you his.”

He starts to speak, but stops at Ahsoka’s look. “So before I have Meglann dump your teensy ass back in that pod and send you to somewhere you can be less of a pain in the ass for us, tell me what you’re supposed to be good for.”

Phygus smiles and reaches down into the pod, bringing out his two datapads in their holsters. “I’m bringing the big one,” he says. Before Ahsoka can roll her eyes, he holds up his hands. “Alchernon!” he exclaims quickly. “Three big ones.”

After a moment, Ahsoka and Meglann both nod. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Rhayme stifling laughter from behind his hand.

“What did you think I was talking about?” Phygus asks with his air of casual innocence. 

At Meglann’s glance, Sorentin Rhayme reaches down and seizes Touchstone’s collar, lifting him free of the pod. Rhayme looks at the two women. “I like the compact size. He might even fit in carry-on.”

* * *

Sohlwey enters the cargo hold behind the young Zeltron and the slightly older Twi’lek. The three of them pay no attention to the unconscious human male and the Rodian on the antigrav sled that the Twi’lek, known as Face, guides. All three of them pause, then look at one another. 

“Are we ready for this?” Danalaan asks quietly. After a moment, En touches her shoulder. “I think we are, dear. I think everything might be coming together, now.”

Danalaan takes a shuddering breath. Face pulls closer to Danalaan and hugs her tightly. “It’s okay, dear. I think that my lout of a husband and his business partner will come through for us. As well as some other layabouts that have been dragged into this thing.”

“Husband?” Danalaan asks, her eyes growing wide. 

Face grins. “Yeah. We are married, though neither of us can stand to be in each other’s company for longer than a ten-day at a time. Don’t worry. He knows that I can get bored easily.”

Sohlwey shakes her head. “If you young’uns can stop thinking about sliding your parts together in the night long enough, we can get on with it.”

Face lifts her hand and touches the MAA’s leathery cheek. “You’re one to talk, from what I hear about you back in the day. Maybe when Hondo gets here, you can try it again. It’d probably make you less cantankerous. Speaking of which, when is your former boy-toy coming to start the bidding on your boss’s overrated ass?”

Sohlwey calmly stares at her. “He’ll be along. You might want to watch the cracks about my mistakes and my boss’s ass,” she says in her gravelly voice. She doesn’t remove Face’s hand, though. “I’m more worried if that damned medical droid is going to make it here or not.”

“I’m already here, Master-at-Arms,” comes a metallic voice. The droid in question, in faded Blood Bone Order colors, trundles out. He stares at the two unconscious thugs on the sled. “Surely these aren’t my patients,” he says. 

“They’ll wake up on their own,” Danalaan replies. “Come on. The signal’s reading over here.”

All of them move over to a cargo pallet against the far bulkhead. They stare at the stacked crates. Sohlwey curses. “This is going to be heavy work. I think we can handle it, though,” she finishes. 

“Why should we have to?” Face says. She turns and walks back to the two laying on the sled. Without warning, she kicks both of them off of the sled to the deck. Both of them jerk awake, with confusion. 

“What the hell?” Duel asks. He stares at Chihdo, as if remembering their dispute.

“Can it,” Sohlwey says. “He didn’t betray you. Neither of you have enough brains to know what the hell’s going on.” She gestures to Danalaan.

“Baby?” Duel whispers at her. 

“Don’t baby, me, dumbass. You think you’re so irresistible that I’d follow you across the galaxy for an exciting life as a pirate?”

“But—”

Danalaan holds up her hand. “You’re kind of interesting, hon. But I got a higher purpose,” she says quietly. Sohlwey notices that her green eyes are fixed on his brown. 

“I thought you wanted to escape,” he says, just as quietly. Sohlwey, in spite of her contempt, is struck by the raw emotion in his voice. “I thought you wanted to find your diminutive.”

Danalaan’s fierce looks softens. She reaches up and touches his cheek. He leans into it. “I do. And I did. I want to explore the stars. But that doesn’t mean that I won’t fulfill my duty to my world. A duty asked of me, even without my parents’ knowledge.” Her smile turns even warmer. “One that knows you asked me to do this.”

Rik Duel falls silent, his eyes widening. Without a word, he jerks his head towards Chihdo. Both of them climb up and begin to manhandle the top crate down.

When it rests on the deck, Sohlwey, Danalaan, and Face lift spanners up to the top, prying it off. 

Sohlwey looks at the woman lying within, her chest barely rising and falling. The medical droid moves over and extends a probe. Duel moves up next to the droid, looking down, his eyes wide with recognition. “Why is she barely breathing?” he asks. His face twists with panic. “Come on,” he says, with growing horror.

“It’s okay, Rik,” Chihdo says quietly. “She had to take the vitals suppressant in case the cargo was scanned.”

The woman jerks up as the droid retracts a needle from her chest. Her black eyes fade to a rich, royal purple. She closes them, waiting for her breathing to settle. After a moment, she raises her leg over the side of crate and steps out. She stumbles slightly, but takes Rik’s hand. 

“Hello, my boy,” Naathanan Beten’ii says. “It’s so good to see you again. It’s been too long. I hear you’ve spent most of our time apart in gaol.”

Sohlwey grins as he has the grace to look sheepish. Naatha moves over and kisses his cheek. 

“Your mistake, Rik was taking a swing at my granddaughter when she arrested you,” she says. 

His eyes widen again. _That may be a permanent state for the boy_ , Sohlwey thinks. 

“Your granddaughter? That Corellian flatfoot was related to you?”

“Yep,” Naatha replies. She looks at the others. “Are we ready?”

Sohlwey nods. “I think so. We need to go get Lassa, then we can get what you came for.”

Naatha shakes her head. “I think that the Captain of the Blood Bone Order can fend for herself.”

She turns and stares at Chihdo, who appears to wilt under her gaze. “Hello, Chihdo. You did your job too well last time. You cost me something that I love, at least for a time.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have told me to involve the Seps. So that you could make it look good for your little bet.”

She smiles, one that Sohlwey has never seen on one of her people. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, bud,” she says. “I had you with us, because I wanted the Seps to know that we knew what they were doing. Especially with that which I loved involved.”

She lifts her hand, causing Chihdo to flinch. With a swift movement, she grasps one of his antennae and twists. 

The others gasp as the organ comes off in her hand. Chihdo breathes out, but otherwise makes no sign of distress. 

“Did you think that Sorentin Rhayme would trust you completely, Chihdo? You who had worked for Seppie intelligence, as well as your clan?”

“He knew what I was,” Chihdo replies. 

Naatha looks down at the false antenna. She touches it and pushes in the rubbery center. A light comes on at the end of it.

“It’s time to make the rest of everything that we did six years ago right. It’s time to put an end to Xerus, or Starswipe or whatever it’s called.

“It’s time to bring my daughter and the Song’s power back.”


	13. But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Schooling the pup. A frank discussion of Hondo’s prowess. The Hunter’s Jedi. The game’s afoot in the present. Coming together in the past.

**The Past**

Rhayme watches as the young human with the wispy beard makes an adjustment to the station-keeping of the small freighter. When he had boarded the ship, he’d been surprised that the human—the Guildmaster’s agent—had been the only person on board. He’d expected that the Guildmaster would’ve been leading this little party. He shakes his head, with a half-eyeroll at the farce that he keeps up in his head, knowing who the Guildmaster actually is, if not why that she insists on the concealment of her identity. 

He grins to himself. Kinda hard to conceal someone with her looks, he thinks to himself. He feels certain parts of himself twitch as memories of the ‘negotiations’ bubble up to the forefront. She had certainly lived up to the techniques that her people are known for. 

Without hesitation.

In fact, she had probably negotiated him down from what he would usually charge for a caper like this—a member of the All-Highest Strategery needed to—

He stops as that certain part twitches even more. He closes his eyes as he sees the Guildmaster’s crimson skin against his blue as she rode him, slowly and deliberately. 

“Hey, asshole,” Kruvure’s voice cuts into his memory, “do you think you could maybe, _oh, I don’t know_ , concentrate on the task at hand and get out of your wet dream?” Rhayme feels his anger spike, but manages to calm. He opens his eyes, managing not to adjust himself after the thoughts. 

He ignores his ex-partner, then focuses on the young human. “So you’re pretty good at this whole flying thing, kid,” he says. “Who taught you?”

The Corellian ignores him for a moment, concentrating on maintaining their position. Naatha—the Guildmaster had been adamant that they maintain this exact place in the universe. “I was born fully able to fly—almost from the womb,” he replies, the snark evident in his drawling inflection. 

“So, Naatha taught you, huh?” Rhayme says.

The infant’s brown eyes lock on his, thunder and no small amount of lightning flashing. He locks the controls, then stands up, his fists clenched. 

Rhayme eyes him with amusement, at the relative small stature of his apparent antagonist. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Kruvure sit up with interest. 

_Might as well sit back, bud_ , Rhayme thinks. _This’d be over before it starts_. 

“You keep your mouth shut, grifter!” the agent shouts. “She’s the Guildmaster!”

Rhayme smiles slightly, then stands up, looking down at the Corellian. “Calm down, boy. We go back a ways. I’ve known her a long time.”

“Don’t call me boy!”

Rhayme lifts his hand, very slowly, and places it on his opponent’s shoulder, very lightly. “Should I call you Rik?” he asks. 

The brown eyes widen. “You can keep it up for the Corellians and the pirates,” Sorentin says. He looks at Kruvure. “Maybe even for this useless bantha. But I know a few of your secrets. Like the fact that Naatha picked you off of the streets without hesitation. She probably taught you a lot of things,” he finishes with a hooded look, “once you were a legal adult. It’s her people’s way.” He marks the bright flush of skin. 

Without a word, Rik Duel calms, then nods. “Yeah. She taught me a lot. She taught me to fly, then how to survive. Then all of a sudden she decided to go legit. Just when I thought we might make some real money.”

Rhayme shakes his head. “Son, let me let you in on a little secret. Naatha already has a shitload of money. This piece-of-poodoo ship was the first ship she ever served on, when she left Zeltros without two credits to rub together, starting a new life. She didn’t exactly start out as the Captain. She owned the damned thing within three months. She’s not trying to make any money. That might be one of the lessons you haven’t been able to learn yet,” he finishes. 

Duel stares at him, then shifts his feet, contemplating his scuffed boots. After a moment, he looks up at Rhayme. “So why the hell have you two been ignoring the hell out of each other since we started this whole thing?”

Rhayme looks at Kruvure, whose eyes focus on him. He sits back down. “You might have to ask him,” Rhyame replies. “Ask him why he was willing to give up a profitable partnership.”

Kruvure shakes his head. “No, ask this old bastard. Ask him what he has against marriage.”

Rik’s eyes shuttle between the two of them. 

“I’ve been married so many times, you’d think he would’ve taken my advice and expertise on the subject before a beautiful pair of lekku caught his eye and ensnared his cock.”

Kruvure snorts. “You’d be the last person I’d take marital advice from.”

“Only thing I ever got out of marriage was the last one. The only good thing was the last child—the only one who turned out worth a shit. Meaning like me,” Rhayme says. 

He notices that Rik has grown silent. Rhayme is about to query him on that particular look when a beeping noise interrupts his thoughts of sons and daughters. 

A small ship flashes into view. His eyebrow raises at the sight of a Separatist shuttle and its odd shape. A _Sheathipede_ class, he thinks idly. 

He feels his pocket vibrate. “Showtime,” he says. 

The teenager returns to his seat at the controls. Kruvure turns to the communication panel, about to input the code that Rhayme had drummed into his head. _With a great deal of resistance from the solid bone of his skull_ , he thinks.

There is another flash of light—then another and another, right behind the shuttle. Several smaller shapes flit towards the stern. Green lances start to connect with the invisible energy flare of the aft shields. 

“Vulture droids,” Kruvure says. 

“You think you can handle them, Rik?” Rhayme asks quietly. “I think what we’re looking for is on that shuttle.”

Rik is about to answer when there is a larger displacement. 

“That wasn’t in the brochure,” Gral Kruvure says. 

_No, it wasn’t. Guess somebody in the Seppies really like what’s on that shuttle_. Rhayme thinks. 

A Separatist cruiser—a full version of the _Lucrehulk_ class, shifts to a pursuit course, its turbolasers joining the assault.

“Well, this just got interesting,” Duel says, beating Rhayme to the riposte.

**The Past**

Taliesin Croft fights the rising impatience. He stands on the bridge of the Star Destroyer _Venator_ , his eyes closed in what might pass for meditation, if his former masters weren’t looking too closely. 

He doesn’t have to open his eyes to see what might be outside the transparisteel windows in front of his face. The same view of empty space that had been there for the last several days. Empty, except for the rocks of the asteroid field that the Hunter finds herself in. Concealed. 

Waiting for orders, from who, he doesn’t know. He only has a feeling that he might know. He allows a slight smile to play over his features. _Not exactly serving two masters, but close_ , he thinks.

He is fairly certain that the Jedi Council would’ve given him his orders directly, if in the form of platitudes and half-arcane, twisted syntax. 

He sighs, hoping no one else can hear. This has the signature of his Corellian uncle, rather than Yoda, although it might be hard to tell them apart sometimes. _Only about a meter and half in height’s difference, green skin, and maybe 840 years_ , he thinks. They both have the same propensity for meddling in the affairs of the galaxy.

Taliesin thinks of who will probably deliver the message; his genitals twitch with the thought of his Zeltron contact and her warmth—not just the kind that affects those, but the kind that makes his heart warm. His smile grows as he thinks of Dani’s and his former master’s new relationship, the laughter and yes, _the love,_ that grows with each time he talks to them. 

He takes a deep breath as he feels two presences move up behind him. His grin widens at the disparate personalities from the pair. _No, not really_ , he thinks. _They both have a great deal of loyalty and love in them. Even if they express the latter differently_ , as he feels the thump of a massive finger on the back of his head. 

He pauses for a moment, bringing thunder to his face. He stares at Drop, his Null Sergeant-Major and right hand, who doesn’t appear to shake in his boots at the thunder. Tal’s eyes move over to the other figure, a smaller one, but with no less strength and power. 

Jana Sloane stares at him from under the unfamiliar hat and service tunic. He smiles at her, even at the matching expression of snark from her, wishing that she had command of this ship instead of the one who did. One who was making both of their lives difficult, by his intransigence and incompetence. 

“You’ve been staring at that window for hours, General,” Drop says. “Do you think your Jedi hoodoo will change the view or something?”

“It hasn’t worked with you,” Tal replies. “Still ugly after all these months.”

“Yeah, well. I’m sure that Commander Sloane will take your mind off of my face,” Drop says. He ignores Sloane’s own thunder. “Speaking of keeping your attention, you should be getting your weekly comm-sex call on the encrypted government channel.”

Taliesin rolls his eyes. “Maybe I’ll let you listen in, _Corporal_ ,” he says, emphasizing the diminished rank. 

Sloane pushes a wide grin onto her dark features. “When am I going to get to sit in? Dani owes me a note-comparing session on your shortcomings,” she says.

“She has your commcode,” he says. 

“Well, I don’t have time for self-pleasure. I have some post-adolescent space wizard poking me with some ridiculous little piece of flesh every waking moment of downtime I have.”

“Emphasis on little,” Drop adds.

“You’ve been looking again, Sergeant-Major,” Tal replies easily. He stops as a crewmember walks up and signals. Tal nods at the pair. “Hopefully I’ll soon know something,” he says. 

He sits down in his quarters and activates the comm. A comm channel that is connected to only one entity. The world of his father’s birth. 

As the holo activates, his eyes widen at the unfamiliar face. Instead of the beautiful crimson features of Dani Faygan, an older human woman’s features look out at him. She is somewhat familiar; he smiles, turning on the charm at her dark eyes and pale skin. 

She rolls those dark eyes. “Turn it down, sport. While I appreciate the beauty, I’ve been charmed by a lot of Corellian males over the years.”

Tal suddenly remembers where he’s seen her. A brief meeting on Corellia with the firm grasp of his hand and an appraising look from this woman. Shyla Merricope. The head of state and government of Corellia, known as the Diktat.

His eyes narrow. “I’m not sure I’m supposed to talk to you, Your Excellency,” he says.

His personal comm dings. He glances down at it then smiles at the recognition code, as well as the holo that flashes on the screen. A holo of a mischievous crimson face. _Well, actually a lot more crimson skin than her just face_ , he thinks. 

Merricope smirks at his look. “I’ve seen that look before,” she says. “We good?”

Taliesin nods. “I guess. What can I do for the Five Brothers, ma’am?”

“I’m sending coordinates to you. We need you to be there within ten hours. There may be some Separatist activity. I won’t go into detail, but Dani and Draq’ tell me I don’t need to with you. As a matter of fact, the Dragon says that you’re smarter than you look.” Her smile grows warm as he feels his expression change. “I personally think he underestimates your looks, sport,” she says with a wink.

“So what am I supposed to do when I get there? Dazzle them with my roguish, _intelligent_ good looks?” he asks. 

Shyla shakes her head. “I hadn’t been exposed to the brilliant Taliesin Croft wit, yet. Or at least half of it. No, sport, you’re to engage any Separatist aggressive actions and meet them head on.” She holds her hand up at his look. “You’ll know it when you see it.” Her look grows more devilish. “Just like holonet porn.”

He is about to reply when his vision shifts, the room dissolving.

To another, similar cabin. Bryne Covenant shakes his head, clearing it of the memory. The memory of one lost, as well as one found. 

He sits up in the comfortable, large bed. He hears two noises; noises that cause him to look down. 

At the two women who have shifted their positions from where they lie against his side. Phyllida Enolo and Pem Bouva burrow deeper into the bed. 

He manages to get out of the bed without waking them, dressing in record time. A few moments’ walk and he is outside another cabin door. He closes his eyes, as the memory of Jana Sloane has suddenly triggered another memory of where he had instructed Ano and Phygus to send the ISD with substituted coordinates. A memory restored, but not just of Jana’s final resting place. 

He pushes his way through the door. Nola Vorserrie starts awake, her injured arm resting on a pillow. 

“What?” she asks, her eyes bleary. 

“We need to figure out how to make something of this shit sandwich,” he says. 

Her eyes widen behind him. He turns around. Rae Sloane stands at the door of the fresher, staring at him. She is clad in a tank top and sleep pants. 

Bryne turns his eyes back to Nola. She is fully clothed in medcenter pajamas. As he tracks back to Rae, he sees the pillow and blanket on the overstuffed chair.

“What the hell are you two up to?” Sloane asks, her muscled arms crossing under her breasts.

* * *

Ahsoka’s eyes open; her mind tumbles up from the depths of the Force. She tries to slow her breathing as images cascade through her Force sense. The borders of the images are indistinct, as if they are from someone else. She smiles as she instinctively knows who they are from; the smile fades as the image locks on the face of Jana Sloane, smiling back at him on the bridge of what appears to be a _Venator_ -class Republic Cruiser—a forerunner of the _Imperial_ I and II versions.

She breathes out, then closes her eyes again, willing the images to slide back to the forefront of her mind. She draws more air in as she detects the pain and grief from Bryne’s sense—from his heart. 

Ahsoka remembers the tapped-out message from a more modern version of that bridge. _Coordinates of a place that meant something to Jana Sloane, Runt_. She grins; she knows that he wouldn’t have added that nickname on a shorthand tapcode message. 

_Their place in the fabric of each other’s hearts might have added that in her mind_ , she thinks. For a moment, she has no thoughts of artifacts and minerals, or missing children—not even the _movement._

She only has a thought for that phrase—one that she hadn’t used herself, but had heard their shared sister-of-the-heart—their fellow Link—use to describe their place in each other’s universe. 

Ahsoka opens herself to the Force even more, pushing thoughts of her heart away; she concentrates on the image of Sloane. As she does, her mind locks on those coordinates. A glimpse of the astronavigation repeater on the _Venator_ shows the coordinates as the stars break from hyperspace.

The same coordinates that the _Draq’stone_ seems to be hurtling towards. She gives a slight cry as the images in her mind abruptly vanish. _Okay, maybe not hurtling towards anymore_ , she thinks as she feels the ship’s motion shift.

A part of her cries out for contact with Covenant—the contact that is so rare these days with the unpredictability of his Force sense. The Fulcrum-part concentrates on the task at hand.

Fulcrum now has a slight explanation of why Bryne had sent them to these coordinates. A reason that might have been buried in his subconscious—buried in his pain and grief at the loss of Jana Sloane; a friend, lover, confidant—yet another of those mentors who had crossed his path in his relatively short life. 

Hers as well, in an even shorter timespan. 

Ahsoka lifts herself from the deck of the empty cargo hold, her hands absently calling her lightsabers to her, from where they had rested on that deck. 

A moment’s walk and she is in the cockpit of the old Consular.

The stars are pinpricks against the curtain. Meglann looks up at her from the controls. “We’re here,” she says quietly. 

“What’s out there?” Ahsoka asks. 

“Lot of wreckage. Looks like there might’ve been a bit of a donnybrook,” she replies. 

Ahsoka stares at the starfield. As her eyes focus on the debris, a tiny, familiar shape passes close to the viewport. An elongated cylinder with two vacant photoreceptors.

The head of a B1 battledroid. 

She allows her sharp vision to focus beyond the droid’s cranium. She doesn’t detect many other droids, but sees a large amount of metal debris, twisted and burned. All of the detritus has a air of familiarity with it. 

She focuses on the largest piece. She breathes out at the broken sphere with an open disk surrounding it. 

“A _Lucrehulk_ ,” Boge says quietly. 

_He should know_ , she thinks idly. A stint in the Republic, then the Imperial navies would teach him ship recognition.

She notices that his brow under the shaven head is furrowed, as he looks at a sensor monitor. “What, big guy?” she asks. 

“It’s reading a bit odd,” he replies, “there’s no droid control module anywhere on there. Weapons are kind of diminished as well. Lots of empty space.”

Ahsoka nods, digesting this. “Weren’t the _Lucrehulks_ originally repurposed from cargo hulks?” she asks. 

He nods, an impressed look on his dark features. “Yeah.”

She rolls her eyes. “I was a Republic officer, too, bud,” she says dryly, at his look.

“I sometimes forget that, darlin’,” he replies. “I thought you were the comic relief.”

“That’s Covenant,” she says. 

He grows serious again. “Looking at all of the sensory crap on it, I think it might be an armed research vessel.” His eyes narrow. “What’s more, even though the thing looks like it got ravaged, there appear to be compartments that are intact and functioning.”

“It was,” comes an older voice. Rhayme and Kruvure walk into the cockpit. Ahsoka focuses on the pair. Her eyes lock on his, as gazes at the wreckage. He shakes his head, then turns back to her. “Lot of vulture droids. You might want to take radiation readings. Specifically for xenalon radiation.”

Ahsoka looks at Boge, who nods and sets to his task. 

“What are you not telling me, old man?” she asks. 

He nods at the viewport, just as Boge enters the conversation. “Contact jumping in,” he says. His eyebrows raise.

“Some sort of Corellian ship,” he says, his voice dripping with uncertainty. 

All of them turn to the viewport, suddenly seeing reason for his lack of certainty. A small vessel, looking like a cobbled together, shortened version of a CR-90, slows as it approaches the Separatist derelict. 

She turns to Boge at the sensor package. He nods. “Trace amounts of xenalon radiation,” he says. “Not dangerous, but it’s a close-run thing. It only recently became safe, from what I can tell.”

Rhayme looks at Kruvure and nods. “It has been awhile,” Kruvure says. “The half-life on that stuff is about 8-10 years.”

Ahsoka manages not to ask the million questions in her mind, just as she manages not to Force choke the shit out of the pair for not volunteering those answers. A much shorter being walks in. 

Phygus nods at her. “Got it sorted, babe,” he says. “Didn’t get all of them, but a couple should help out.” He grins and then blows on his finger. “I’m kinda impressed with myself.”

Ahsoka smiles and forgives him the ‘babe’ comment, just as she forgives the arrogance.

Alarms sound in the small space. Boge curses as his eyes return to the monitor. “Imperial signals. A wedge.”

An Imperial Star Destroyer.

“Move us deeper into the wreckage,” Meglann says to Murta. She turns to Boge. “Rig for silent running.”

Ahsoka centers herself as the activity picks up around her. She focuses on Covenant’s face in her mind.

His true face.

* * *

Naatha wrinkles her brow in concentration as her nail works at the tiny circuit breaker in the panel. Danalaan smiles at the expression, then widens her eyes at the stream of Zeltron invective comes out of the older woman’s mouth when her nail snaps off into the quick. Naatha shakes her hand, continuing with the cursing. Danalaan sees that the digit is bleeding, from the break deep into the quick. Without a thought, Danalaan seizes her hand and bring the finger to her mouth. Naatha raises an arched eyebrow as she kisses the slight wound, then pulls out a small bandage from her pocket. 

Danalaan can feel both Naatha’s and Face’s eyes on her as she deftly repairs the tiny wound. 

“You’re kind of handy to have around—” Naatha starts. The eyebrow continues to be raised in curiosity. Danalaan looks down. 

“Just Danalaan,” she whispers. 

Naatha nods, then reaches over and kisses her. “Something tells me that you’ll find the shortened form of your name, soon, love,” she says brightly. “Going out among the stars and helping your world can be a great catalyst for finding yourself.” She takes her turn at looking at the deck. “I know how it goes. The only thing is, I had to leave my world and leave what I loved behind to find mine and its inflection.” Both of them are quiet for a moment. 

Danalaan nods. “Naatha,” she says, with the emphasis on the second syllable. “The star-hawk.”

“Yeah,” Naatha responds. “One fuck-up and I could’ve been named after either a scavenger, a ball game, or a famous chef.” Both women giggle at those thoughts. 

“Oh for the love of my diminished credit account, could we get on it with it? Those circuits aren’t switching themselves. We’ll need them if we’re to isolate the dumbasses from the normal people,” comes from behind them in an exasperated Twi’lek accent.

Danalaan watches as a smile creases Naatha’s face. “Is she always this pushy? A gotta-go-fast type?” the older woman asks. 

Danalaan matches the smile. “Yeah. Never could slow her down long enough to enjoy my bounty,” she says, an arch look joining the smile. 

The Face rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. I was trying to get the boredom over with in a hurry,” she says. She grows serious. “Speaking of dumbasses, do you think those two can get the weapons offline?”

“I think so,” Naatha replies easily. “He’s smarter than he looks. Chihdo is pretty resourceful as well.”

“I hope so,” the Face responds. “We’ll need that added disruption if we’re to regain control.” She checks her comm. 

“Anything, dear?” Naatha asks. 

“No. On neither front. Hope Sohlwey’s boyfriend has fond enough memories of their boot-knocking sessions,” she says. “Plus, I’m worried we haven’t heard from Lassa. I hope she was able to find the thingy you told us to tell her about.”

“Don’t worry about the power of love, dear. You’d be surprised at what even down-at-their-heels pirates can do.” A mischievous smirk grows on her face. “I had no problems with what Hondo could do.” She ignores their looks. “Once you could get him to stop talking.”

“Yeah, that was always our problem,” Sohlwey says as she enters the compartment. “Lassa’s good to go. She’s in her cell, waiting for the wannabe Hondo and the real thing to come back and visit her to gloat.”

“Okay. Hopefully everything will be in place,” Danalaan says. She looks at all three women fondly. “Maybe we can stop talking about Hondo’s sex life, now.”

“Don’t knock what you haven’t tried, dear. All you young folks are just too picky,” Naatha says. 

Danalaan is sure that the look of horror on the Face’s, _well, face_ , is mirrored on hers.

**The Past**

“Get to that shuttle, kid,” Rhayme says to Duel. “I think what we’re looking for is on there. He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a small device. A light on it shows green and blinking. 

“You mean to tell me that we’re going to stick our cocks into the meatgrinder of all those vulture droids and a _Lucrehulk_? Are you out of what’s left of your mind, you old bastard?” Kruvure snarls.

Rhayme doesn’t turn and engage, but replies, “Yep. It’s sorta like marriage, as you’ll find out soon enough.”

Kruvure stares at him. “At least my wife isn’t trying to get me killed,” he says, the thunder apparent on his face. 

“Yet,” Rhayme replies. “She’s young. Give her time.”

“Could I get a little guidance, now, instead of the goddamned marital advice?” Duel says through gritted teeth. 

“Calm yourself, infant,” Rhayme says. “Just head to where they’re shooting at.” He lifts and punches his datapad. “Here’s a course for you. It’ll take you around the vultures, who seem to be single-minded in staying on a straight course and just kinda harassing the shuttle.” He points at the starfield. “All except that one.”

Duel’s eyes track to what he points at. The droid in question seems to be flitting in and out of the cone of fire of the other four, feinting at the shuttle, who dodges away from it. “That’s going to be the one that hits it,” Duel says. 

“Good lad. That might be the one we have to take out first, before it takes out an engine.” He fixes his eye on Kruvure, who is watching the byplay with a smirk on his face. “Why don’t you earn your keep, Bruiser?” he asks acerbically. “What’s weird about the ‘hulk?”

“It doesn’t seem to be using all of its weaponry. It’s hanging back, waiting on what the vultures are going to do. I’m also wondering why there are only a half-dozen or so vultures. A ship that size would have hundreds. Plus, why the hell are you quizzing me? I’m not junior, here,” he says, pointing at Duel, who bristles.

“I just wanted to make sure that your juices were still flowing and hadn’t been drained by that harpy,” Rhayme replies. 

Kruvure stands up. “You’re going too far, you son of a bitch. She’s a good person.”

Rhayme nods after a moment. “I know. I’m a bit salty right now.” He grins. “I just question her judgement in picking you over me.”

Kruvure visibly calms. A slight smile quirks his lips. “Right. Like she’d buy your bullshit.” 

Rhayme slaps in him on his massive arm. “She was the best pupil I’ve ever had. She took to my lessons like no other,” he says, adding the wistful quality to his voice. 

“She already knew how to con and scam. I think Shysa taught her a bit, along with the Mando mayhem and chaos,” he says. 

“This is all so touching,” comes a sharp, younger voice from the pilot’s seat, “but we’ve got a slight problem, if we’re going to save the universe and get all the creds.” He points to a monitor with a flashing red display. 

Kruvure moves to the monitor. “What the hell? We haven’t done anything and the stabilizer array is already out of sync.” He bangs his fist against the nearest bulkhead. Duel stands up and faces off—a wisp against a canyon wall. Kruvure rolls his eyes at the sudden display of ass from the teenager.

“Relax, bud,” Rhayme says smoothly. “She’s just a bit touchy.” He grins. “Kinda like Naatha,” he says. 

“Way too much information,” Duel and Kruvure say simultaneously. 

Rhayme shoves Kruvure towards the aft section. “It’s why I brought you, Mr. Mechanical Whiz,” he says. He turns to the pilot. “He’ll fix it. I want us docked with that damned thing in two minutes. Take the course I gave you.” He sits down at the weapons station. 

The daring young droid in his flying machine—or actually is his flying machine—is soon rubble as they arc in between the other stick-in-the-muds. Rhayme smiles at the expert maneuvering of Duel, in spite of the recalcitrant stabilizer package. 

All of their jaws drop at the sight of the pilot of the shuttle. They all recover as they recognize the pilot. A young woman in a drab Seppie uniform, made less drab by her bright, if pained smile. 

Ardalen Nath holds her left arm against her side, as if guarding something precious. She lifts her right arm and gives a particular signal with the fingers.

His eyes soften at the blood on the uniform. He gently lifts her arm and stares at the deep gash. He can detect a tiny bit of bloody froth on her lips. He notices her dark skin growing pale. “Gral,” he says to Kruvure. 

Kruvure nods and takes her other arm. “I’m almost as good as a people mechanic as I am a tech-mechanic,” he says with a reassuring smile.

“We have to get to that damned cruiser,” she gasps. “Everything I’ve worked for is on there.”

Rhayme looks out at the viewport, making a quick decision as the Lucrehulk moves over them. “Nope. I was told that whatever was on this shuttle is the most important. I don’t relish fighting all the B2s on there,” he says. He nods at Kruvure. He reaches up and touches Ardalen’s cheek. “I just didn’t expect it to be you,” he says. “I didn’t know you were a Seppie.”

“There are only a few onboard—it’s a research—”

Her voice fades as Gral touches the injector to her neck. She doesn’t fall unconscious, but visibly relaxes. Gral lifts her with surprising gentleness into his arms. The shuttle lurches as they move towards the airlock. 

Without a word, they move towards the airlock, Duel in the lead. As he makes to sit in the pilot’s seat, Gral Kruvure speaks up. “Hey, bud, no offense, you’re a pretty good ship-driver, but have you ever broken out of a tractor lock?”

Rik is quiet, but then shakes his head quickly. “You?” he asks. 

“Not me,” Gral replies. “Him,” gesturing at Rhayme. 

Rhayme raises his eyebrow as he sits in the seat. “The trick is to keep the shuttle between us and them. May need you both on weapons. We’ll use the guns to sling the shuttle at the big boy.”

As he waits for them check in, he pulls the freighter back from the shuttle. “Hit the left engine,” he instructs. He doesn’t wait for the two to reply, but rotates the ship away, applying only a burst of the engines. 

He feels the reverberation of the explosion. A glance at the aft monitors shows the shuttle heeling over towards the _Lucrehulk_. He shifts the engines to full and begins to power away. 

His unoccupied hand moves towards the navicomputer, but Rik’s beat him there. Another lurch and Gral curses. He checks another monitor. “I was afraid of that,”he says. The stabilizer has failed. It’s thrown the hyperdrive out of alignment.”

“What does that mean?” Duel asks.

“It means we might explode if we jump.”

“You boys need a lift?” comes a female voice, bright with a Pantoran accent.

Sorentin Rhayme starts to breathe faster at the familiar voice—one he’d only heard when its owner was younger. He closes his eyes. 

“I guess you’ve stepped in it and pissed our chances away at the mineral,” she says. “I’ve been on that ship before, not too long ago, as a matter of fact. Had a nice conversation with the owner. Nice nap, too, after the conversation,” she finishes. “She was pretty enthusiastic with her words.”

Rhayme hears Kruvure’s laughter at the expression on his face. “Like father, like daughter,” he says. 

“We’ll pull you out,” she says. “Maybe you’re worth something to somebody.”

An instant before the black, red, and gold CR-75 pulls them into hyperspace, a large wedge shape thunders in, its red striped hull shifting into the spectrum. Its main batteries open up with green lances. Rhayme sees the _Lucrehulk_ shuddering under the explosions.

Rik and Gral look at him. “Who the hell invited them?” Gral asks. 

_Good question, bud_ , Rhayme thinks. _I bet it might be the same one that put this whole thing into motion. There’s a woman’s touch here._

His eyes focus on Ardalen. Her eyes remain closed, but her hand lifts a device from the pocket of her coveralls. A device that looks suspiciously like a remote detonator clacker. 

She flips the safety off and clacks it once, twice, then three times. There’s no explosion, but he’s sure that somebody’s day has just gone asymmetrical. The clacker drops from her limp hand as she falls back to full unconsciousness.

He shakes his head. _Yep. A woman’s touch._


	14. If this be error and upon me prov'd,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hondo the problem solver. A new Imperial captain—for now. Always keep your doctor in oil baths. The ballad of Captain Stumpy. The hearts of the Blood Bone Order.

Loganer turns to a crewmember on the bridge at his cleared throat. He stares, waiting for the response to the proximity alarm.

“A small ship, Captain. A fighter. It’s signaling you.”

Loganer rises from his chair. He stumbles as he moves to the comm station. His eyes flash at the snort from one of the stations—he can’t identify which one. He turns to the screen.

A small A-wing—a trainer—holds station off of the bow. His eyes narrow at the large fuel pods slung under each wing. Loganer glances at the comm, reading the text. He nods with satisfaction as he recognizes the agreed upon signal.

A signal from someone who would take Lassa Rhayme from his hands. The unknown party would also solve his cash flow problem, most probably keeping him from being tossed from an airlock.

“Let them onboard. Starboard hangar,” he grunts at the crewman. He rises and exits the bridge.

As he moves through the passageways, he notices crewmembers turning their back on him as he passes them. His anger spikes; his hand moves towards the blaster on his hip.

Loganer shakes his head, moving his hand away from his weapon. It would do no good to kill a couple of them, to demonstrate that he was still in charge—still their elected Captain.

Even though he’d managed to be elected by guile, rather than any skill. The three dozen crewmembers that were now left after the election seemed to be regretting their decision.

He finally stands in front of the hatch of the small hangar bay. His eyes widen as he sees the status monitor. The small pinnace, with its hyperdrive, is missing from the inventory.

As he waits for the agent’s appearance— _no, he waits for the airlock to cycle_ ; his crew apparently can’t make it work, he thinks about the transaction he’s about to make. He questions whether or not he should go through with it. The anger and raw threat of the buyer almost assured that Lassa Rhayme would die a gruesome death. In spite of his grasp for power, he isn’t at his heart, someone who would rejoice at the murder of another.

Unless there was profit in it. He shakes his head. The shadowy, large figure had named an amount that would keep the ship in food and fuel for a few weeks, as well keep him in power, until he could find more work. A figure proposed for the privilege of slitting Lassa’s throat. Something he had contemplated doing himself.

Especially after she had used her teeth to draw his blood, lulling him into thinking she would finally give in and grace his bed.

The hatch finally begins to open. He grits his teeth as the hatch stops about ten centimeters in. He whirls on the crewmember manning the airlock. The human stares back at him, then smirks. He strikes the panel, once, twice, then three times.

The hatch opens. Loganer closes his eyes.

“Hello, Delto, old boy. It warms my heart to see one of my crew succeeding on their own. Even one as useless as you.”

Loganer stares at Hondo Ohnaka, framed in the hatchway.

“What the hell are you doing here, Hondo?” he asks. “You can’t be the one that I’m selling Lassa’s ass to. I wouldn’t imagine she embarrassed you that much when you crossed paths at the end of the war.”

Hondo raises one side of his mouth in what would pass for a smile by anyone else. “Nope. I let bygones be bygones. I’m here to take her away from all this.”

“What did you do, old man?” Loganer asks.

“I managed to convince your buyer that it would be hazardous to his health to threaten my dear Ms. Rhayme.”

Loganer shakes his head, as he digests this. “I find that hard to believe that anyone would back off of their life’s wish to spill her guts on the deck from a suggestion by you. You’re a has-been, Ohnaka.”

Hondo looks at the overhead. “Ahh, I thought that I taught my crew better.” His eyes lock on Loganer. “I thought that I taught them never to underestimate Hondo,” he finishes.

Loganer stares at him, then jerks his head. As Hondo steps aboard, the lights flicker. Both of them feel the stomach-dropping shift of a loss of gravity.

When they return to the deck, Hondo grins at Loganer. “I see that everything is running so smoothly, my boy,” he says. “Please, would you allow me to teach you a few more lessons about being a pirate captain?”

“There’s nothing you can teach me, you old bastard. I got nothing else to learn. Especially from an abject failure like you,” Loganer snarls.

“Ahh. Abject. That’s a big word. I thought I was only a normal, run-of-the-mill failure.” Hondo’s eyes grow sharp. “I think you have a lot to learn.”

He turns and starts to walk away. The ship lurches again.

Something prickles at the back of Loganer’s neck. Something— _off_.

As he follows Hondo, he wonders about the A-Wing that had brought his new ‘benefactor’ to his ship.

* * *

Nola watches as Rae Sloane talks to her Captain and the pet stormtrooper officer. She smirks at the fact that neither woman is wearing much in the way of uniform—or even clothing. Bryne rolls his eyes at her expression.

“So did you sleep well, bud? Are you well rested?” she whispers.

“I did, and I am. Eventually,” he replies. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“You saw. We weren’t even in the same bed. She was just watching out for me after the torture session on my finger with their so-called medical droid,” she says. She looks down at the digit in question, still resting at an angle from her left hand. _Maybe a shallower angle_ , she thinks.

Bryne’s green eyes take on a pained look. He looks at the trio of officers, still engaged in conversation, then reaches and out and lifts Nola’s hand, being careful of her shoulder.

Nola closes her eyes, feeling the warmth of his lips on the finger. When she reopens them, she looks into his eyes, then down at her third finger, where his thumb and forefinger rest.

“You ever going to wear that ring I got you? For the Links?”

She grins. “So what are you expecting as a dowry?” she asks, ignoring the question.

“I better get a lot of nerfs out of this, or something,” he remarks without hesitation. Their laughter is low and brief, but warms them both. She looks over at Rae when it stills. “Do you think she bought your story, of the intel that Corellia had supposedly received?”

He returns her grin. “We’ll know soon enough, when we’re standing next to that young officer on the hangar deck.” His grin fades. “I need to see if we can get in to see her. I’ve had Riyo Chuchi see if there was anything else I could do. I think that she’s only got a few more hours.”

Nola looks away. “Rae and I talked about her. She and a member of the air wing, a Major Dua, served as her advocates. Didn’t seem like they could do much.”

She quiets as the three Imperials walk over. “Against my better judgement,” Enolo says, “I’m not going to shoot you both.” She reaches over and touches Bryne’s face, as does Bouva. “It would be a shame, if we did.” They repeat the gesture on Nola’s cheeks.

Enolo looks over at Rae, then smiles. “Rae has convinced me that it may only be a coincidence that the coordinates we got had some meaning to her.” She grasps Rae’s hand. “The fact that the location is that where her beloved sister was taken after she died over Coruscant is powerful to me. We’ll render appropriate honors for Jana,” she says.

Nola holds her breath, as she watches Bryne out of the corner of her eye. He is calm, but she and a few others would be able to tell that his emotions are roiling inside at the mention of his friend and fellow Republic fighter. One who had meant a great deal to a young Jedi general, leading troops for the first time.

“She tells me that you came clean about the intel you’d received. Some that might make our lives a bit difficult with Zan Arbor.”

“Yeah,” Bryne replies, coming back to himself. “The coordinates that you received may not be the ones that you should’ve been sent to. I think we might be in a little bit of trouble when we get there. We may be a distraction from the main event—whatever the hell that she’s playing at.”

There is a discreet knock at the hatch. A very young officer walks in, his eyes studiously avoiding looking at the amount of bare skin that the two senior officers are displaying. Enolo smiles and takes the datapad from him and touches her finger to the screen.

Her eyes narrow at what she reads. She passes it to Rae, then to Pem.

“You may have just been officially saved from spacing, my dears,” she says with a sardonic grin. Bryne takes the datapad, but passes it to Nola.

“It says that the Hutts have claimed the space we’re about to enter. Somehow, I guess based on some old treaty or _arrangement_ ,” she says with emphasis on the last word, “that Corellia has with Geddan the Hutt, they have safe conduct. Imperial Center has decided to honor their space and the restrictions, until this is sorted out. We’re to continue to the coordinates, even though my fleet commander thinks that somebody is playing silly buggers with us.”

She looks at Bouva, who nods and goes into the next room. “I think that we’re actually caught in between a couple of players. One who happens to be my Moff, now, as well as Zan Arbor.”

Nola looks away at the mention the new Moff of Fondor. Rae’s eyes meet hers. She looks away from the raw sympathy in them. “We’ve had dealings with Panteer before,” she says evenly. She concentrates on Enolo. “What are we supposed to do?”

Enolo grins. “Well, I’ve been told that I’m to cede command of this vessel to the Covenant of Corellia,” she replies. “I’m a little wary of that. He seems skilled in some areas—at least modestly, but I’m not sure how well he’ll do in command of an Imperial warship.” She and Nola share a smirk.

Both Rae and Bryne roll their eyes. “I’ve played one on the holonet before,” he replies, the sarcasm dripping, “at least during the War,” he adds, bringing just a tiny bit of mystery from his legend.

Nola manages to hide her grin. _They’d be a bit taken aback that the woman who is memorialized at these coordinates is the one that taught him whatever skills he might have._

She touches Rae’s hand as she sees her looking out at the chaos of hyperspace, pensively.

“So, what are your orders, your Eminence?” she asks.

Nola turns to Bryne, who looks back at her. “The first thing you can do is cancel the execution of that young officer,” he says.

“I thought you’d say that. Too bad. The execution was just carried out.”

Nola sees Bryne clinch his fists as her own heart sinks.

Enolo remains calm. “Or at least that’s what’s been reported to Fleet,” she says. “I have an alternative punishment in mind for Ensign Kozume,” she says. “One that will continue her usefulness to the Imperial cause for a long time. Especially on Fondor, in the matter of that self-same Moff.”

Nola looks into Bryne’s eyes. _Okay, that’s a battle for another day_ , she thinks.

She notices that Enolo is looking at Bryne. He nods after a moment and stares back at her. “Continue on course, Captain. What’s our ETA?”

“Another hour or two,” she says after a moment.

“Then we probably need to revert from hyperspace with our cards showing.”

Enolo nods, then jerks her head at Rae. Rae catches Nola’s eye as she leaves.

“We’ll be ready for anything that the Hutts or whoever throws at us,” Enolo says. Bouva re-enters the cabin. “So what do you think we can find to pass the time in the next couple of hours?” she asks, taking both Nola and Bryne in with her gaze.

“I vote for sabacc,” Bryne says.

Nola closes her eyes, hoping that the pained look isn’t too obvious on her features.

* * *

Lassa winces as the meddroid probes her ribs. After a moment, the battered medico lowers his appendage and turns back to the door at a noise.

“So what’s the verdict?” Lassa asks, tapping TooOneBee on the metal cheek. The droid swivels his head back around.

“You’ll live. Only a couple are actually broken—just cracked. You’ll hurt like hell for awhile, but nothing too serious. No punctured lungs or anything. The blood on your mouth isn’t frothy. Just comes from hitting Loganer in the fist with it repeatedly.”

“Good to know,” Lassa replies.

“I always knew that your mouth is probably the catalyst for most of the injuries that I’ve treated on you,” Too says. “Probably why I am treating you in a brig-cell.”

“Hush, Too, or I’ll withhold your next oil bath. The girls said that we’ll soon be out of here,” Lassa says. She looks down at her torn dress shirt. “Speaking of girls, mine seem to be on display a bit more than this ungrateful crew needs to gape at. You didn’t happen to bring me some clothes? Maybe even some pants?”

Lassa feels the electronic version of an eyeroll from the droid. “I think the crew will live, Captain. You’ll have to wait until your fan club comes to bail you out.”

“Great. Also, why the hell are you being such a smartass? Am I going to have to check your programming again?”

“Check all you want. I’m the same lovable droid you stole off of Big Bunji,” Too replies.

“I took you in repayment for a debt. I didn’t steal you.”

The droid’s photoreceptors track to the overhead again. “Oh. My mistake. I’m not sure that Bunji actually knew if he owed you anything.”

“Oh, please. Quit your bitching. I took you away from all of that. I saw the gunsel who liked to use you for target practice,” Lassa says darkly.

“Lovely. Thank you for taking me away a life on a planet, where that was the only danger, that I’d have to dance once in awhile. Here there’s the daily threat of dismemberment from this current crew.”

“As I recall, you voted for Loganer as well, so don’t give me that shit,” Lassa says. The ship lurches again, then shifts. “Those assholes better take care with my ship.”

“Technically, it’s not your ship, Rhayme,” Too says.

“What happened to ‘Captain’?

“You were voted out,” comes the reply.

Lassa grins. “Yeah, I know. I planned it that way.”

That stops the droid short. “What?”

“I knew I had a disloyal element. I needed to figure out who they were. This seemed like the best way.” She closes her eyes and smiles. “I’m going to need a loyal crew for what’s coming.”

The droid is silent. “I think you’re right, Lassa,” he says. “So what part of your plan involved you getting the poodoo beat out of you?”

Lassa laughs and gives a rueful grin. “That part wasn’t exactly anything we came up with. I didn’t expect loverboy to get so pissed off when I bit him. Kinda discouraged him from getting frisky.”

“So who gave you this idea?” Too asks.

“It’s kind of a riff on a slightly different technique used by my predecessor. He arranged to fail gloriously so that he’d be voted out.” She feels her eyes tear at that thought.

The door rattles. Lassa stands up. “Guess it’s time to go,” she says. The door snaps open.

“Too true, my dear, I have saved you from yourself,” an unexpected voice comes from the door.

Lassa feels the heat rise in her face. “What the hell are you doing here, Hondo?” she spits.

“Saving your somewhat attractive posterior, dear,” he replies. “I just paid your former Captain a nice sum of money to explore a career elsewhere.”

Lassa explodes. “That wasn’t part of the plan. I’m not paying you one goddamned demi-cred, you old bastard!”

Hondo holds his hands up in a pacifying gesture. “Please, my dear. I didn’t pay out any of my own funds for you, as much as I hold you in high regard. Even though you and your witch friend tried very hard to kill me a few years ago.” His eyes suddenly grow soft behind his goggles at Lassa’s expression. “May she rest in peace,” he says quietly.

Lassa shakes memories of her lost friend, Asajj Ventress. “So whose money did you spend, pirate?” she asks. “Sorry,” she says with her own amount snark. “Ex-pirate.”

Hondo doesn’t rise to her thrust. He pulls out a holocomm and activates it.

Ahsoka Tano’s face appears in the air. Lassa’s heart rises and then falls. “That wasn’t part of the plan, love,” she repeats. “I didn’t won’t you to have to be involved. I know funds are short.”

Ahsoka smiles. “Oh, so this was a plan? I thought your ass was in danger.” The smile fades. “So did everyone else. Including your crew.”

Lassa looks down. “I know. I didn’t want to involve them. This whole thing could’ve gone sideways, if Loganer had just been a smidge smarter than he was. This was my risk. Sohlwey was the only other one.” She looks up. “How much did you pay?”

Ahsoka’s smile returns. “I didn’t pay anything. I just found out about this whole thing.” She steps out of the pickup.

Lassa feels her anger rise as Sorentin Rhayme steps in. “Great. Just what I fucking needed.” She clinches her teeth. “I had everything under control, Rhayme. I just hope you and your buddy here didn’t screw things up.”

She sees his own anger rises. “I’m not sure why the hell I bothered,” he says. “There’s nothing like ungrateful children to set me off. No one knew that you orchestrated this whole thing. I risked everything for you. Don’t you realize that a number of people who love you risked a lot?”

Lassa’s eyes widen. “This wasn’t just about me. Naatha and I were working on something for her world. Something that needed correcting.”

“Oh, so you knew about that?” Rhayme asks. She sees Ahsoka come back into the pickup. Her eyes flashing at both of them.

Before she can say anything, alarms start to sound—on both ends. “Action stations, action stations. Imperial Star Destroyer jumping into the sector,” Sohlwey says over the Tannoy.

At that moment the lights flicker on _Opportunity_ , then go out. There is silence—a silence that Lassa has never heard before from her ship.

 _The engines_ , she thinks.

She whirls on Hondo. “What the hell did you do?”

“Nothing. I think your so-called allies might’ve overdone it. Especially Chihdo and the boy.”

“Come on, Ohnaka,” she says as she starts to run. “Time to earn your keep.” She looks at the holocomm as Hondo follows her “We’ll talk later, Pops,” she yells. “It’s gonna get loud.”

**The Past**

“The _Lucrehulk’s_ heavily damaged, General,” the ship’s toadlike Captain says to Croft. Behind the Captain’s back, Jana’s facial expression is calm and professional. It’s only that he knows what to look for in her dark eyes that he sees the snark and a certain amount of merriment.

He nods at the Captain—someone that he hasn’t even bothered to remember his name, except for a certain descriptive nickname that a certain acting Executive Officer had whispered against his skin as their heartbeats attempted to calm. He manages not to use it in his reply. “Very well, Captain. How about next time waiting to fire on a ship when we come out of hyperspace until I tell you to? I’d like to have, _oh, I don’t know_ , seen what the hell was going on.”

“The Seppie was attacking a shuttle and that corvette. That’s all that I needed to know,” he replies in his aggrieved tone. “Plus, I thought that your orders were to engage any Separatist aggression. Orders, I might add, that didn’t come from any Republic sources.”

“Yeah, but they were my orders, not yours. You follow mine, no matter what. I don’t expect blind obedience, but I expect you to wait to engage, especially if this ship isn’t in immediate danger and we don’t know what’s going on. Use some goddamned judgement with the discretion you have.”

 _Captain Stumpy_ , goes unsaid as punctuation to his words.

The Captain stares at him for a moment, then turns away as a junior officer walks up to him and whispers in his ear.

Jana places walks over to Croft and places her hand on his chest. He manages to calm his anger, remembering all of those mantras that his masters had taught him about what anger would lead him to.

 _Mainly, in this moment, the one about not choking the living shit out of some asshole who desperately needs it_ , he thinks, remembering another mantra from what some would say is a less reputable source.

The Holonet.

He shakes his head. “I’d like to know what the big Seppie was after the little Seppie for,” he says to Sloane. “Or what the hell that corvette’s after. I’m thinking a ship with a red and gold skull painted on it might be up to no good.”

She pulls up her datapad. “I’ve been doing some research on Outer Rim pirates,” she replies. “I think that it might be one.”

At that particular moment, the corvette in question takes its interesting paint job and begins to power away, moving towards a point where it can jump away.

“I don’t think they got what they came for,” he says pointing towards the remains of the _Lucrehulk_.

The shuttle disappears into the hangar bay on on the separated section. Jana checks her datapad. “I’m not getting any life readings. Droid signals are low as well. I don’t think that’s a warship or even a droid control ship.”

Croft nods, concentrating on the would-be pirate. He notices another small freighter attached to the airlock. He turns to the helm, bypassing the Captain. “Pursuit course. Angle towards them and cut them off from jumping,” he says. He can feel Stumpy’s anger rise, but the crewmember nods.

The corvette slows, but doesn’t stop. “Hail them,” Croft says. He turns to Captain Gregor and Drop, both clad in their armor, complete with their buckets. “Get ready to board, _ner vode_ ,” he says quietly.

Both clonetroopers salute, then turn away.

The corvette suddenly flips, turning in the opposite direction.

“No response to our hails, General,” a comm officer says.

“Fire across their bow,” he says.

“You’re going to fire on what could be a Republic vessel—a victim of a Separatist attack?” the Captain asks incredulously. “Based on my acting XO’s so-called _research_?

Behind him, Croft feels Jana’s anger spike at the Captain’s veiled sarcasm. He is about to reply when another officer breaks in. “They’re changing course and increasing speed.”

He and Jana turn towards the viewport. Croft watches as the corvette accelerates.

Straight towards an asteroid field, away from the angled blocking course of the _Venator_.

“Pursuit course, Captain,” Croft says.

“We can’t.”

Croft doesn’t worry about the dark side as he turns on the officer. “Why the hell not?” he asks as the corvette enters the field. He waits on Stumpy’s answer as he sees the pirate expertly weave its way through the tumbling rocks.

“We’ve sustained damage to several of our sublight engines in the reversion from hyperspace,” he say. He looks away, knowing what comes next.

“Did you follow your acting XO’s advice about the maintenance of the engines? No, not advice—a recommendation that this exact scenario would happen if you didn’t?”

The Captain says nothing. Croft turns away, trying to keep the contempt from flowing from him. He turns to Jana. “Move us toward the _Lucrehulk_. We can do that, right?”

She nods, but then looks at a monitor. “Maybe not, Tal,” she says, forgetting where they are. Croft turns his ire on Stumpy as he sees the officer note the use of his first name.

“There’s just been a spike in radiation—an intense spike that came on quickly. It’s beyond lethal levels.”

“What type?” Tal asks.

“Xenalon. The stuff has a half-life of about five or six years. It’s inundating the whole ship.”

“General, we’re getting a broadcast comm. It’s warning us away,” says the comm officer.

“Put it on.”

Shyla Merricope’s face comes over the holoviewer. “Republic vessel. You’re now in contested space. The Hutts are claiming it. In concurrence with the Republic Senate, this area is now a Corellian protectorate until we can sort the competing claims. It is also being declared a hazard to navigation, due to the radiation. This type will defeat any attempts at protection when boarding.”

Croft stares at the executive. _What kind of game are they playing_? he thinks.

“The warning will keep the Seps away as well. Droids can’t stand up to xenalon, either,” Jana says.

Several shapes jump into, enveloping the _Venator_. The ubiquitous CR-90s.

His eyes narrow as he sees the green stripe around the hulls.

“Ten ships,” Jana says. “Broadcasting CorSec signals.”

Tal nods. “Just enough to be an annoyance.”

“Not to mention the whole intergalactic incident thing,” Jana says.

“Yeah. I feel like I’ve been played a bit, but I don’t know why. This has the Dragon’s smell all over it,” naming the intergalactic powerhouse and meddler, Draq’ Bel Iblis. His newly revealed uncle.

“Take us home, Commander,” he says to Sloane, ignoring the Captain. “As soon as our booboos are fixed.” He does turn and glance at Stumpy.

“Get me Fleet Command. I’ll take it in my quarters.” He spins on his heel and stalks out.

* * *

Naatha rushes past a gaggle of crewmembers as she follows Face and Danalaan down the corridor. She manages to catch a bit of their querulous murmuring as she passes them.

There had been a great deal of murmuring in the last hour or two. Danalaan, Duel, and even Chihdo had gone amongst the crew, spreading every rumor that they could. Alarms had already started, announcing everything from an imminent astralon storm (something she’d never heard of before, in nearly fifty years of space travel) to a serious radiation leak.

Danalaan had lead the disinformation campaign. Naatha grins as she feels a twinge of pride in the young woman. She remembers herself—not at Danalaan’s age, but older, with a child already in her arms. The feelings of wondering what was out there—of what she would be.

Her eyes tear as she continues to her objective. She wonders if Danalaan, in her urge to leave the Land, knows how her wanderlust would affect others. Others that loved her as much as another young woman and another young man had—her heart bonds who had been left behind when Naatha had left Zeltros to find her way.

A way that had eventually led her to this old Corellian corvette. A journey that had eventually lead her back to Zeltros, but at a cost. The cost of the love of those two bonds, as well as the love of the daughter that she had borne in the bonding.

No matter that she what she had done to make up for that wandering, no matter what she did to protect Zeltros and raise the standard of living with the wealth that she had made as the chief of the Blood Bone Order. A name she had come up with in a drunken coupling with a couple of Twi’lek dancers—dancers shared with her Quartermaster at the time. A Naboo named Mal Dolros. She would never be able to heal the wound that her departure had left.

She remembers the last time that she’d tried to connect with Alyysina, the young daughter, a young weapons engineer on Coruscant. Just after she had returned to Zeltros, with a stop on the capital world.

There had been no warmth for her. She had learned that her other two bonds had eventually drifted apart. Nothing that Naatha could say could heal the rift. She hadn’t even tried.

Until she had met Draq’ Bel Iblis, her daughter’s lover and father of the beautiful granddaughter. More Corellian whisky and the genesis of this whole caper had been born.

A caper that could help her world continue to be the bright shining light that it was, a world that could instantly choose its leaders or its direction in one focused burst of its people’s unique gift.

A caper that would make her daughter’s life as the protector much easier.

And put the arrogant Corellian who had loved her daughter in his place with his defeat in the slight competition that had arisen. She grins at that memory. A motivation that both would respect with their similar natures.

 _Just because_.

She comes back to herself as the door to the hangar deck snaps open. She sees Sohlwey standing by the A-Wing trainer. She smiles at the Master-at-Arms, the only remaining crewmember who had been with all of the Captains of the Blood Bone Order. After a moment, Sohlwey nods at her, then moves to the nearest fuel pod that was slung under the wing.

“Did you find what you needed on the bridge, dear?” Naatha ask.

Solhwey grins. “I did, Cap—Naatha,” she replies. “Actually I left something. Something that Lassa once told me that you actually put in motion, before you managed to get yourself voted out.”

“Yes. Always have a failsafe. Mal perfected it though. Just before he got voted out, as well.”

“Ain’t figured out why the hell you worked so hard to get voted out—both of you. Why you’re helping Lassa stay on as Captain,” Sohlwey muses.

“Sometimes it’s time to move on. I think that if Mal were here, he’d agree. But I don’t think it’s Lassa’s time. This is is still her life.”

Sohlwey nods, somehow making her face much warmer. “I think you’re right. It’s why I agreed to help her.”

She turns to the fuel pod “Guess it’s time to face the music.” She pulls a lever.

The front of the ‘pod’ snaps open. A pair of purple lekku leads their owner out of the pod. She pulls off the breath mask and stares at Sohlwey. “So I guess that I’m supposed to forgive you, now?”

“No,” Sohlwey replies. “Because I didn’t do anything that Lassa didn’t tell me to.”

Naatha sees the Twi’lek’s single hazel eye bore into Sohlwey. “That doesn’t make it better. I’ll be having some words with her, as well.”

There is a crash from the other wing, punctuated by loud cursing in a deep bass voice. The three women move around, then try to suppress their laughter.

San Adis is halfway out of the pod, both Danalaan and Face on either arm.

Trying to pull him from the pod, where he seems to be lodged.

Somewhere around his ample middle.

“Shut up,” he snarls. “I don’t want to hear it.”

Naatha reaches over and kisses him. “Don’t worry. I was told you’re the backbone of the crew,” she says.

“Actually, the breadbasket,” Thyla Secura, the Twi’lek navigator says as she helps yank the gunner out.

“You’re both wrong,” says a new voice—a voice with a sharp Pantoran inflection. A holo pops up from Naatha’s comm.

Thyla and Adis stare at Lassa Rhayme. She holds up a hand. “I know. I owe you both an explanation. I didn’t want to risk any of you. Sohlwey has been with me longer and agreed to it.” She looks at Naatha. “Hello, Guildmaster. I figured you’d pop up sometime, like a bad coin.”

Naatha smiles. “You didn’t seem to mind the last time I popped up. Or rather, the last time you popped out of your clothes in my bed.”

There is a groan from Adis.

Lassa is about to reply when the lights go out and all noises of mechanisms go out. Naatha feels herself become lighter as the artificial gravity shuts down.

 _You just can’t get good help, anymore_ , Naatha thinks. She switches her comm to network two calls.


	15. I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The payoff.

Ardalen enters a code on a terminal, just inside the airlock. Dani’s eyes widen as the radiation alarms cease their flashing and screaming. 

From what she’d heard about xenalon radiation, they should have melted screaming into the deck within a minute. Ardalen gives her wide, warm smile. “Just a little fiction I managed to concoct. There’s another type of radiation that mimics xenalon—one that you can produce in the lab. It’s harmless, but I had to have a failsafe if I couldn’t get the doodad that I needed to. Thanks to my ‘rescue’ last time, I had to use it.”

“Lot of mimicking going on here,” Dani observes dryly. “So this cudolenium can help find more valuable minerals?” she asks. She tries to stifle the skepticism in her eyes and voice. 

Ardalen smiles. “Nope. All part of the story to get the _Opportunity_ drawn in back then. Plus to encourage a young Corellian male to help a young Zeltron both get to the mineral and get to help Lassa, today.”

Dani’s eyes flash. “So somebody was already getting Lassa’s mediocre ass out of the mess that she got herself into?”

Ardalen shakes her head. “Yeah, I’d heard about your little nonsensical feud. I share the prevailing opinion that the two of you should just get naked together and work off your tension. Actually Lassa getting into that mess was all part of her plan. Along with someone else,” she finishes.

Dani rolls her eyes. “Let me guess. A certain Corellian dragon who happens to share my DNA.”

Ardalen laughs. “Not quite. Only indirectly. He might be the catalyst, along with the Guildmaster’s competitive nature—actually both of theirs.” She pulls out a holocomm, and starts a sequence. 

“So how did the Seppies wind up involved?”

“They actually found the source of a large amount of the mineral that we need. It serves as a catalyst to a mineral with certain gravimetric properties. The only thing is, they need a helluva lot more than we do. The amount we have on this ship is enough to last a millenia or two for our purposes.”

“So it’s probably not very efficient to use in a gravity well generator,” Dani observes. 

It’s Ardalen’s turn to show surprise. “Oh, so you know about that? Yeah, that was Jenna Zan Arbor’s problem. The reason she couldn’t get results and was stringing her bosses along. Probably had an influence on her getting vivisected by the lightsaber of an Imperial minion, later. She liked to play her bosses along, or against one another.”

Dani closes her eyes. She feels the twinge of Ventress’s lightsaber scar on her back. “So what’s your angle? Why do you need the stuff?”

“Nothing much. Just the democratic future of our people,” she replies. 

Dani cocks her head at the possessive pronoun. Ardalen notices and nods. “Your people are mine—both of your worlds. There’s a closer connection than you think.”

The comm finally connects. The face of an older Zeltron flashes on the small screen. Dani gasps at the power of her familiar purple eyes. Dani’s eyes play over the thin features of the woman; features that reflect power and some wisdom in their beauty. The woman smiles at Dani. 

Dani can see the brief hint of tears in her eyes as she looks at her. “Hello, Daaineran. My beautiful granddaughter,” she says. 

Dani’s heart twists at her words. She’d heard stories about Naathanan Betenn’ii, but not from her mother. Alyys had always been silent about her birth mother. 

Ardalen touches her cheek. Dani can see that her emotions are affecting her. “Is everything moving, abeyyeh?” she asks 

Dani manages to calm her emotions. She starts as another face comes into the pickup. A young Twi’lek, her purple skin glowing in the pickup; her right eye is covered by an eyepatch. 

“We’re close,” Naatha says. “Be there in a bit.” She smiles at Dani. “I can’t wait to meet you, my love,” she says. The screen fades.

“How touching,” says another voice from behind. Dani and Ardalen whirls. An older woman stands, one hand on a blaster on her belt and the other on an oddly shaped knife. Dani can just make out bandages on her chest under the leather jerkin that covers all but her muscular arms. 

“Ming Lardai,” Ardalen says. “Jabba’s chief murderer and scavenger.”

She smiles. “I’m doing a favor for a friend,” she says. “One that has some interest in you, my dear. The fact that you took something precious to him, makes him a bit less disposed to your continued living, unless you can tell him where she’s at.”

“You can tell him to go fuck himself,” Ardalen says. “If he could, he would—seeing how much he cares about his ‘seed’.”

Dani nods. “Dorith Panteer. He seemed to want to put that seed in my foster-sister. A young woman who refused him.”

Ming touches the bandage. “Yeah. I cut her throat for him,” she says. 

Dani feels her eyes flash with anger; she calms. “No. You didn’t. I’ve already had an update. A young Fondorian put a bolt in both of you, to keep you from doing that.”

Ming’s eyes spark. She turns to the other thugs that have come up beside them. “Take the Zeltron. I have no need of her. Hold her and I’ll slit her throat.” She shifts her vision to Ardalen. “This one has a date on Kessel, for safekeeping.”

Dani smiles as the two thugs approach her. _You’re not the only one who likes her knives, sweetie._

**The Past**

Mal stares back defiantly as Lassa’s anger grows. She looks down at the datapad, the results of the election flashing in her face. She lifts her eyes and turns to the rest of the crew, assembled on the small hangar deck. They all stand on her side of the deck, Sohlwey first among them. 

She brings her eyes back around to the now-former captain of the _Opportunity_. He gives his head a quick up-and-down motion, then allows his slow, lazy grin to play over his features. The grin that had taken her in; the grin that had told her that she was welcome on their crew. Something she hadn’t felt in a long time. 

In spite of the grin, she let’s her anger boil over. “You sonofabitch,” she says, her accent coming out clearer, even to her own ears. “You let this happen. You knew we weren’t going to get anything out of it.”

He shakes his head. “No. There was a fifty-fifty chance, sweetie,” he replies. “It’s why I took a gamble. I knew it was time for you to be the Captain. If we’d succeeded, I don’t think we’d’ve gotten enough of a payout to keep me.” He moves over to before she can back away. She tries to push him away, but allows him to pull her in tight. “I’ve been captain for twenty years. Ever since—” He stops. “It’s time. I’m tired; I’ve been tired for a long time—even before you came on board.”

The crew disperses, except for Sohlwey. “I saw the potential in you,” he says. “I saw that you could be the captain that I could sleep well knowing the crew was in your hands.”

He looks down, then away. She turns his eyes back to hers with her finger on his draw. “Can I stay? It’s up to the crew, but you have a say. I’d like to go back to being your gunner. I don’t want too much responsibility.” He kisses her forehead. “I got nothing back on Naboo.”

After a moment, she nods. “I’d like that. I think that I’ll need you. Both of you,” she finishes taking Sohlwey in with her gaze. 

“We’re there for you, Captain,” Sohlwey replies. 

Lassa takes a deep breath, then turns to exit the hangar. “I’ve got to throw some people off of my new ship,” she says. 

Mal nods. “Go easy on him, Lassa. He probably thinks what he did was right for you.”

“Maybe. But it certainly was right for him.”

A walk of a couple of minutes leads her to the sickbay. She takes a deep breath and allows the hatch to open.

Sorentin Rhayme and Gral Kruvure watch as a young woman rests in bacta. A woman, that according to Mal, was the reason that the Guildmaster had engaged his help—not just the mineral. A mineral that no one is sure of the true worth of, based on the information and misinformation of Lassa’s one night stand, the Guildmaster. 

Lassa hears the door close behind her. Sorentin walks over to her. He stares at her pointedly. “So—” he starts. 

She holds up her hand, feeling her anger grow. “Don’t,” she spits at him. “I don’t want to hear anything from you, you old bastard.”

“Lassa—”

“Don’t ‘Lassa’ me. You abandoned us. My mother believed in you, until her dying day. You left us to the tender mercies of one of your other wives. You could’ve come back for us,” she finishes. 

He begins some snarling of his own. She notices that his fellow aft orifice, Gral Kruvure watches with some amusement. _No_ , she thinks, _amusement for him. Something like sympathy for me._

“I had to. I made enemies. They would’ve harmed you both, to get to me. I had to leave,” he says, his own anger rising. His eyes flash at her. “I don’t know why the hell I’m trying to explain myself to an ungrateful brat like you.”

“Maybe if you had been less of an asshole, you wouldn’t have made so many enemies,” she says darkly. 

“She’s got you there, bud,” Kruvure says with a laugh. 

Sorentin slumps visibly. “You are so like me, my sweet,” he says quietly. The best memory of my life was teaching you how to shoot.”

Lassa grows still, remembering. She takes a deep breath, and turns to the sound of her master-at-arms dragging a Rodian by his antennae. “Found this in a cargo compartment,” she says. She holds up an unfamiliar device. “Seppie comm unit. I detected some brief bursts during the donnybrook.”

Gral stares at the Rodian. “So, Chihdo. Finally showed your true colors?” he asks. 

“Leave him alone. He was part of it,” Sorentin says. “We had to get the _Lucrehulk_ here. He just let them know where. Your former captain spread the word about the mineral.” He smiles at her. “To get you and the crew here with your current captain.”

“Dump them,” says a quiet voice.

They all look at Lassa. 

“Next habitable planet, get them the fuck off of my ship. All of them,” Lassa says. Her look softens at the woman in the bacta tank. “The boy—Duel—can stay with her until she can travel and the Moonshadow is repaired. He’s working on her.”

“Lassa—” her father starts. 

“Don’t,” she repeats. “I might change my mind as to whether we dump you on a planet with atmo or not.”

Lassa turns her back on them and walks over to the woman in bacta. Her eyes widen as she recognizes her as the dancer who she had dallied with in the pleasure palace. Back when Duel had introduced them to the tiny bit of the mineral.

Ages ago, it felt like.

* * *

Lassa pounds down the passageway to the power spaces, her ‘rescuers’ right behind her. She stops at a small locker, her eyes flashing at what she sees. 

Rik Duel, the young agent of the past Guildmaster and Chihdo, a somewhat familiar Rodian— _yes_ , he was the one that had broadcast the signal to bring the Seppies to the party. 

A lifetime ago.

Both are scrambling over a panel of circuits, frantically trying to switch them to and fro. Lassa curses, then shoves them away. 

The board is now officially a mess.

“I thought you said that you sent them to just shut down the weapons,” she says to Naatha. 

“I did,” the Zeltron says darkly. 

“Well, maybe you should’ve sent somebody who maybe, just maybe knew what the hell they were doing,” Lassa replies. She motions them to look at the panel.

“The conduits are fried on these. Even if we had time to get them back in the right sequence, we wouldn’t be able to get the reactor back on line. It has to be shut down and reprimed.” Lassa looks at Adis and Thyla. “I don’t suppose you have a Wookiee engineer in your pocket?”

“She wouldn’t fit,” Thyla says. “She might be with Fulcrum and the rest, but I’m not sure.”

“I can get the reactor shut down,” Chihdo says. All of them whirl and look at him. 

“Really?” Thyla asks. “You and your apprentice dumbass just managed to get us in this mess.”

“Yeah, but I worked in a reactor factory on Corellia for awhile. I may not’ve known about these circuits and shit, but I was the safety guy on the line. I learned how to shut these things down in an emergency, so that they could still be primed.”

Rik looks at him, then shoves him slightly. “So is working for Jabba worth it, bud?”he asks quietly.

Lassa stares at him. “What did you do?”

“I let Jabba’s minion know about the mineral, as well as the engineer who worked on the original project,” he says. 

Lassa draws her weapon. Thyla motions her to hold. 

“It was the last debt that I owed. I just fed Jabba more of the bullshit about the value of the thing. I needed them off of my back.”

“So Jabba’s headed for the _Lucrehulk_?” Naatha asks, her own eyes transitioning to the black and her skin flushing.

“They may already be there. They should find out that the stuff is worthless.”

“My daughter’s not,” Naatha spits out. “The Imps might want her since they know she’s an original engineer on Xerus. For Starsweep.”

Rik turns to Chihdo. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t betray us. He might not be our best hope, but we’re still going to have to get the reactor primed. It’ll still take some time, unless you have an insta-prime.”

Adis curses. “It never fucking worked right. I guess that we better start getting ready for manual. There’s a station in the master fire control space.”

Lassa and Naatha look at one another. They smile and nod. “Take useless here and get him to shut it down. We’ll take care of getting us back up.” Rik nods and pulls Chihdo by his ear out of the locker.

“How?” Thyla asks. 

“Supersecret Captain stuff, babe,” Naatha replies archly. 

Lassa slaps Thyla on the ass. “Get to the bridge, sweetie. Try to make some order out of the chaos that those bottom-feeders probably have stirred up.”

At that moment, the speaker comes on. “We’re managing to keep sensors, MAA. An ImpStar just jumped in and is heading towards the _Lucrehulk_.”

“Come on, Captain,” Lassa says to Naatha, “time to save the day.”

Naatha pulls out what looks like a Rodian’s antenna as they move towards their objective. Lassa raises an eyebrow at it, with the blinking lights on it.

“Little comm device that I had Rhayme put in his artificial antenna, years ago. I knew I might have to have a failsafe with Ardalen.” She looks at it.

“What’s up?” Lassa asks. 

“I’m not getting a reading from her. I had gotten a reply. Now, nothing.” 

They stop at what appears to be a plain bulkhead. Lassa smiles and lifts her hand to the bulkhead, pointing at it. “You can do the honors, Captain,” she says, pulling out a small device. 

Naatha matches her smile, but says, “You’ll have to finish it, though. It only recognizes the current captain’s biometrics. 

Lassa nods. “Let’s hope dumbass didn’t know enough to change it. I sort of neglected to tell him about this.”

“Good,” Naatha replies, “I didn’t think that he deserved to know how to be a miracle worker and get everything started again.” She takes the device and presses on the panel in a particular fashion. It springs open, revealing a small slot, with the rung of a ladder going up. She inserts the device and turns it. A panel in the overhead snaps open. 

After a moment, she removes the key and hands it to Lassa, who pockets it. Lassa looks at Danalaan, who had followed them quietly. “Come on sweet-cheeks,” she says, “time to earn your keep.”

“What?” the girl asks. 

“I’ll need someone to help complete the manual part of the sequence while I hold the portal open. Naatha will have to complete the sequence in the compartment.”

Lassa smiles as she sees the slight bit of fear in Danalaan’s eyes. “Why me? Shouldn’t you get Thyla? Or Face?”

“Nope. It’ll be tight in here. I don’t need lekku getting in the way.” She grins, then points at Danalaan’s chest. “Or bigger ones than those on them.”

Danalaan rolls her eyes. “This is the only time I’ve felt like smaller ones were a plus.”

“You know what they say,” Naatha snarks, “more than a mouthful—”

“Okay, okay,” Danalaan says. 

As they climb, the one switches to a ladder on the opposite side of the tight conduit, Lassa is very aware of the young woman. She smiles at the determination on Danalaan’s face. She suddenly realizes that Danalaan reminds her of someone else—someone with the same strength of purpose, as well as the same warmth—someone she would never admit any notice of that warmth and strength to. A woman of Lassa’s age that isn’t currently speaking to her, without insults. She smiles, thinking of the private truce with Dani Faygan, while everyone else believes they’re trying to kill each other.

They stop and Lassa inserts the device into an identical slot, turning it and holding her thumb on it in a specific way. She turns her head and gestures at the panel behind her. “Enter this code,” she instructs, then gives a string of numbers, symbols, and letters. 

It doesn’t take long. The lights go out completely, the come back on in full force. 

“Reactor’s up,” says Thyla’s accented voice over comm. “Priming the engines, now.”

Lassa hears a curse from a deeper voice, as she feels a lurch. “ImpStar just locked a tractor beam on us,” Adis says.

Lassa slumps, closing her eyes. She feels the warm hand on her cheek, the fingers moving down to touch her lips. 

“Quit feeling sorry for yourself, Rhayme,” the young woman says sharply. “It ain’t helping.” 

_Okay_ , Lassa thinks, _she reminds me of Faygan for more than just the warmth and strength._

The speaker comes on again, as there is another lurch. “Hey, Rhayme,” says a familiar voice, “anyone saving your ass yet?”

Lassa smiles as the voice of Ahsoka Tano continues. “We’re going to try to get you over to the _Lucrehulk_ , if our ringer on that ImpStar can get you out of the tractor lock.”

Lassa doesn’t even ask as she digests that information, but somehow, she thinks that there might be a Corellian or Naboo touch involved.

Or both. 

_Those are the only two of these idiots not accounted for yet._

* * *

Bryne watches Enolo’s face as she stares at the corvette. He grits his teeth at her triumphant grin. “Bring her aboard. We’ll see if Bouva can start in on them to get some answers.” Bryne looks at Nola; her eyes are just as angry as his. 

Especially after Enolo’s next words. 

“It’s amazing what you can do with a stormtrooper’s blaster set on low, applied to the extremities or the genitals.”

 _That makes what we’re about to do easier_ , he thinks. _I only hope that we can survive it as well_. He looks away, wondering if a Jedi—even one trained as a shadow, could make a good spy. He pushes the guilt at his impending deception down to a deep, dark corner. 

Nola is looking at him, her sharp features filled with sympathy. She nods slightly.

As he manages to calm his anger and guilt, he feels that familiar feeling in his mind. The presence of another—one in the fabric of his heart. He can’t tell where Ahsoka is, but he knows that she is near. He opens his eyes. Nola is smiling at him slightly. _I guess she knows my expression when the Force seems to be with me again. When she sees the connection with someone that we both love._

He reaches into his pocket; he feels the outline of the device, a device that resembles an ordinary comm. _This might hurt_ , he thinks. As he wraps his fingers around the device, he hears an officer in the crew pit speak up. “There’s another ship out there. I can’t tell what it is, but it’s maybe another small corvette. There’s still a lot of interference from the xenalon radiation.” His voice rises a bit in curiosity. “Or at least what’s left of the radiation.”

“See if you can target the other vessel with a tractor beam, as well,” Enolo orders her weapons officer.

Bryne looks at Nola again. She nods. _Do what you have to do, love_ , she mouths. _I’m ready._

He pushes a particular button on the device in his pocket. He lifts his hand at the same time, using the little bit of his arcane companion that seems to be present for the moment. 

He watches as Rae’s attention is drawn to Nola, who now lies on the deck, unconscious.

She misses the two long shapes that jump in from two different angle. 

The _Resurgent_ shudders as green and red fire lances into its side. She heels over as the turbolaser fire strikes in a precise area, before walking the energy up to the bridge. 

He hopes that the bridge shields are up, like they normally are as the huge Separatist capital ships—the familiar _Providence_ -class dreadnoughts—concentrate their fire on the bridge. 

Even with the shields, the bridge shudders and the lights flicker. Conduits and beams split and fall. With his concentration almost shot, Bryne manages to shield he and Nola from the deluge of debris. Rae seems to be caught in Nola’s protection as well as she crouches over her. Bryne smiles as he realizes that the officer is shielding Nola’s body with her own, unaware of her mystical protection. 

Enolo isn’t so lucky as a conduit strikes her on the head, knocking her to the deck. A beam falls across her body. Covenant runs over to her. The Captain is still breathing. Bouva comes up beside them, her stormtrooper’s mask blank. Bryne realizes that she is wearing enhanced armor—the type that has extra strength and protection. 

They are both able to lift the beam away. “Get her below,” Bryne snaps. Bouva recoils at the order, but obeys. 

“The reactor’s offline,” an officer says. “It’s still up, but the the connections are disrupted. We’re losing power, even to return fire. 

“Tell the Chief Engineer to get them back online. Return fire with our reserves,” Rae says, coming over as Bouva lifts Enolo and moves towards the exit.

“The ChEng is dead. The propulsion assistant is trying to get to main control,” the officer says. 

Bryne look at Rae. “We’re dead in space, Rae,” he says. “I’ve got some experience in shiphandling. But I don’t know shit from apple butter about reactors and such.”

Rae nods. “Okay. Don’t try anything fancy.” She opens the speaker. “This is the XO. The Captain is injured. I’m going to take charge of restoring power. The Corellian, Covenant, has the deck.” She looks at Nola, who is now conscious, her eyes only slightly unfocused. “You think you can stay awake long enough to assist me? I could use some help, if you can.”

“I’m okay,” Nola says. She looks at Bryne, who nods.

“Don’t break my fucking ship, Covenant,” Rae says as they leave. He turns to the viewports.

“Yes ma’am,” he whispers. _Okay, now what?_ he thinks. _It’s not as easy as it seems to be running both sides of a battle at the same time._

He remembers lying in bed with Ahsoka, only a few months ago, their skin melding together as he holds her in his arms. He shakes his head of the memory, shoving the thoughts of the soft skin of her breasts as he concentrates on the story she is telling. 

Of her greatest failure—one that had turned into a sort of triumph, one that she had saved her master’s life over Ryloth. He smiles as he remembers the Togruta word that describes the maneuver. 

_Marg Sabl_. A beautiful flower that opens like a sunburst every morning. 

He looks back at the officers who have assembled near him. They eye him with skepticism.

 _That’s okay. I’d look at me with that same skepticism_ , he thinks. 

“Get me ventral weapons,” he says to the weapons officer. “As much as you can give me. We have helm control?” he asks the navigator. 

“Yessir,” the officer responds. “We still have maneuvering thrusters.”

“I need a roll of ninety degrees to starboard, then full negative pitch. At the apex of the maneuver, hit the port attacker with everything we can—turbolasers, proton torpedoes, and ion cannons.” He looks at another officer, one who is dressed in pilot gear. “Launch all fighters and bombers simultaneously at the other one.”

He sees their eyes widen as they understand. “Move!” he orders. 

“I could get use to this,” he whispers to himself. He sees a young ensign staring at him as he talks to himself. He smiles with what he hopes is reassurance to her.

“Ready, sir,” the navigator says. 

“Weapons ready.”

“Execute,” Bryne says. 

With only a second’s hesitation, he feels the ship respond. Very slowly, with increasing speed. 

He smiles as he notices that the _Opportunity_ has powered up and is moving towards the _Lucrehulk_. He can just make out the upper part of the _Draq’stone_ behind it, mirroring her movement.

* * *

Dani looks up at Ming Lardai, then next to her at Ardalen. Of the two, Ardalen seems to be the the calmest. Both she and Ardalen are on their knees as Ming paces back and forth. 

Lardai stops. “So where’s the mineral? We want to get into the pricy mineral finding business,” she says. She idly reaches down and lifts Dani’s chin with the point of the flensing knife. Dani stares back at her defiantly, then allows a smile to play over her features. She sees the killer start for a moment, then increase her respirations, a flush playing over her golden skin. 

Beside her, Ardalen matches her grin as Dani opens the resonance more. More of Ming’s thugs start to shift and murmur as their trousers become either more tight or more damp, depending on gender. 

Dani feels Ardalen push a small object into her hand. She manages to drop it down her bodice. Ming stops and shoves Dani off of her knees. “Enough, Zeltron,” she says. “While it’s an interesting diversion, you’re not going to distract us.”

Dani smiles, then looks at Lardai’s minions, who seem to be having a different idea. Ming notices. She doesn’t hesitate. She draws a blaster and shoots the nearest thug in the head. 

The other seems to increase their concentration. Dani leaves the resonance open, just for pure mischief. 

Ardalen looks at Dani, then at Ming. “Jabba’s going to be disappointed, dear,” she says to Lardai. “That whole mineral-finder thing is a nice fiction, created by the Corellians to generate interest from, ah, certain parties—parties like yours. An interest that used you and your boss’s avarice to cause problems for the Seppies and their little projects.” She grins. “They might’ve had a little help from me on that one.”

Ming stares at her for several moments. A slow smile flows over her angry features. “That sounds like the desperate words of someone trying to distract me from its value. I think that I’m going to have to start cutting off little pieces of your little playmate here.” The grin turns even more dangerous, if that’s possible. “You too, beautiful. I only need your tongue, to tell me where it is” she says. She shifts her gaze to Dani. “I might leave her tongue, for a little entertainment, later.”

Dani sees that Ardalen is unmoved. “Dear, I’ve been threatened by the best of them. Two children have either been taken from me, or I’ve given them up to protect them from various scumbags like you. I know that they’re protected—that you can’t take them from me. My mother is safe and more dangerous than you can imagine. I have nothing left to lose.” She gives an apologetic look at Dani. “My mother’s granddaughter knows what she signed up for. She’s also tougher than anyone, because she comes from that Corellian stock that’s infuriated and bested people in this galaxy for decades. People like you and your slug.”

Ardalen begins to laugh. “The best joke is that the Dragon got bested—he got played by someone else. Her grandmother, Naathanan Betten’ii. The woman who’s playing your boss, as well.”

Lardai stares at Ardalen. She is about to reply when her comm buzzes. A woman’s image pops up. A younger, shorter version of Ming Lardai, dressed in a version of Imperial pilot’s gear, a full Captain’s insignia on the chestplate. She stares at the tableau before them. 

“Mother, I don’t have a lot of time. Deputy Director Zan Arbor and Moff Panteer have reached an agreement. They both want Ardalen Nath. Get her to Kes—”

The transmission cuts off as three of Lardai’s thugs fall with acute cases of blaster poisoning. Ming reacts to her daughter’s transmission. She lifts her blaster and points it at Ardalen. 

“Z-14 Code—” Ardalen starts. The blue ring of sleep strikes her, dropping her to the deck. Ming motions to two thugs while the remaining ones return fire at the unknown intruders. 

Both of the thugs grab Ardalen and begin to take her down another corrider. Ming draws her knife, then advances on Dani.

Dani can feel huge hands grab her as a Gamorrean pinions her arms. Lardai smiles at her—a smile without warmth. “I’d rather make this up close and personal. I’ve never slit a Zeltron’s throat before. Wonder if the hoodoo fades as you bleed out.” The smile widens. 

“Why don’t you beg for your life like that tall mouthy Naboo did before someone saved her ass?”

Dani manages a smile. “No, she actually didn’t. She’d be cursing you, rather than begging.” As she talks, she moves her right foot between the thug’s, then stomps down on the opposite instep of the Whiphid, twisting and reaching down to her thigh under her skirt. 

Dani swings the blade that she pulls, slicing the thug’s throat then moving towards Ming before he even falls. She flips the knife to a reverse grip and forces the killer to take two steps back, before scoring a hit above Lardai’s breasts. 

That’s for No-no’s pain, she thinks. She continues to push forward. As she does, she begins to see Lardai’s soldiers lying on the deck like so much refuse. 

More and more of them. 

One manages to grab her ankle, causing her to stumble. Ming looks around her, then takes the opportunity to turn and run. Dani drops to her knees, plunging the blade into the Weequay’s chest as an afterthought when he moves his hand towards his blaster.

She looks up as a shadow falls on her. Lassa Rhayme stands over her, her blaster smoking.

“Am I going to have to fight you, Rhayme?” she asks. 

“No, not right now. Got more important things to do. Like pick my nose.” She reaches down and pulls Dani up. Dani sheathes her blade, then touches Lassa’s cheek, her thumb rubbing gently over the half-closed eye.

She and Lassa look at one another for a moment—a moment broken as a young Zeltron woman rushes by, holding a glowing chain in her hands. The glow seems to increase as she advances.

Jaten Gorlute comes up to them, along with Boge M’Faru and Ahsoka. “I guess we follow her,” Ahsoka says after giving Dani a brief embrace.

“We need to get to the Hutt’s ship. They’ve got Ardalen—my aunt,” Dani says.

“They’ve already disconnected and jumped,” Meglann says over Ahsoka’s comm, as they start to follow Danalaan. 

“There were too many of them to cover the Lardai woman’s escape,” Ahsoka says. 

They all stop at the hatch of a particular hold. Danalaan stands over a small object the size of a shoebox. She tries to lift it, but fails. “We need to get this out of here,” she cries. “This is what all of this was for—for my world, and for my abeeyah!”

Dani looks at Ahsoka, who nods. Dani and Lassa reach down to the sobbing young woman. “We’ll get it, dear. You’ve done your part, Danalaan,” Dani says. “I think you’ll find your diminutive. It took me a while to find mine. I’m Daaineran—Dani.”

The young woman’s green eyes are huge as they lead her away. Lassa smirks at Dani and says. “I think you’ve might have a fan, Faygan,” she whispers into Dani’ ear.

Dani turns as they exit. She smiles as she sees Ahsoka lift her hand in a familiar gesture. The dense mineral lifts by itself and follows her.

Dani makes sure that Danalaan faces front as they move to the airlock. She pulls out her comm and hits three keys. 

A light starts to flash as they reach the _Draq’stone’s_ airlock. 

Lassa turns away to her own ship, reaching over and embracing Ahsoka. “I guess we’re headed to a wedding?”

Dani rolls her eyes as she guides Danalaan onto her ship. She thinks about the next step of this journey. 

Finding Ardalen Nath again.

* * *

Ahsoka makes sure that Dani and Danalaan are ahead of her, as they move into the _Draq’stone._ The mineral—the item that some of her loved ones had spent almost the last decade searching for all the promise of either riches, or something more powerful to Dani’s people. Something that Naathanan Betenn’ii was willing to manipulate three fractious or even warring governments to find. She rolls her eyes as she allows the slug of unrefined mineral to drop into a cushioned safe in a cargo locker. That and the promise of besting Draq’ Bel Iblis in a bet. She had heard about the bet from the Dragon himself, as she had sought answers after leaving Bothawui Proper. 

She thinks of the price that Naatha may have just paid. She shakes her head, shoving that thought away. The entire bet had not just been about getting the mineral for the Zeltrons, but helping her adopted daughter escape the Seppies—an affiliation that had come out of Ardalen’s disaffection, but had grown into a way to help her escape, once she had realized what the Separatists had been. An escape that might have just occurred, with the claiming of the mineral. An escape from the past, that now had led her to an uncertain future.

A quick run and she is in the cockpit of the _Draq’stone_. Meglann rises as Dani moves towards the pilot’s seats. Dani waves her hand, instead taking the co-pilot’s seat that Murta Locke has vacated. Ahsoka feels the motion shift as Meglann pulls her away from the _Lucrehulk,_ with increasing confidence and speed. 

“Ardalen made me enter in a certain code in a comm that she gave me,” Dani says. “I don’t think it was just the lock to the compartment.”

“Yeah, that countdown was pretty ominous,” Ahsoka replies. “Pedal faster, Meg.”

No sooner are the words out of her mouth when Boge speaks up from the nav and sensor array. “Buildup of xenalon radiation again,” he says. 

“I think it might be real this time,” Dani muses. 

The world shifts for all of them. Ahsoka feels herself picked up and spun towards the overhead as the ship gives the sensation of being flipped end over end. She reaches out with the Force and grabs Murta and Danalaan, the two remaining standing. 

The motion stops as Meglann and Dani managed to fight the controls. “Hey Bruiser,” Meglann says, looking at Gral Kruvure, “how about you earning your keep and checking for damage.”

After a brief staring match (and the beginnings of an apparent pissing contest) Gral nods and obeys. 

“Take ‘daddy’ with you,” the Captain adds, jerking her head at Sorentin Rhayme, who had been sitting at the weapons console. Ahsoka catches Dani’s eye; both women smile with pride.

“Begging everybody’s pardon, but not really caring,” Boge says. “It looks like the ImpStar has managed to flame the two Seppies. They’re starting to show interest in us.”

Ahsoka looks towards the viewport. The wedge-shaped behemoth moves between the two no-longer-recognizable shapes. The Star Destroyer trails its own debris and plasma as it moves slowly towards the three corvettes—the _Moonshadow_ now resting attached to the _Opportunity_ , like a scavenger on a sea-creature.

Lassa’s body pops up over the holoviewer. “Y’all’ve got the precious cargo. Get to Zeltros. We’ll cover you—that is if I can count on these damned rebellious assholes that are left on this ship.”

“I didn’t come all this way just for you to commit some dumbass sacrifice, you stupid bint,” Dani says, the anger rising in her voice. “We all go together.”

“Besides,” Ahsoka starts with a Smirk pointing at the former Seppie ships, now rapidly becoming debris fields, “doesn’t all that chaos over there have a particular signature?”

Dani turns to stare at Ahsoka. A slow smile grows over her face. “Covenant,” she says. 

“Nola, too,” Ahsoka replies. “Apparently they both got drafted by the Imps.”

The smiles fade. “How are they going to get out of this? I’m not sure they can fool the Imps for long,” Meglann says. 

Ahsoka feels her heart twist at Meglann’s words. She pushes the fear away. “They’ve got some help from Phygus. He and Ano are in the Imperial network, behind about fifty firewalls and blinds. That might be enough.”

“Okay. Now that we think the dumbasses might be able to pull their play pretties out of the fire, we need to think about ourselves,” Lassa says. She steps over to allow an older Zeltron woman to step into the pickup. “I’m going to take Rik and Chihdo over to the _Moonshadow_. I think we’ve gotten the repairs done. We’ll shield you from the view of the Imps. The _Opportunity_ and we are kinda okay with being seen by them, since we ain’t a semi-government ship. We’ll be able to make our respective jumps, then. As you can see, the ImpStar isn’t exactly burning up realspace to get to us,” Naatha finishes. 

Ahsoka smiles. “I look forward to meeting you on Zeltros, Captain Bettenn’ii,” she says. 

Naatha nods. “I think we can have some good _conversations_ , Fulcrum.” she says, allowing her tongue to stick out from between her lips.

 _Damned Zeltrons_ , Ahsoka thinks as she feels the heat on her face and sees the grins on the others. She sees Naatha’s face fall. 

“We won’t let Ardalen slip away from us,” Ahsoka says quietly at the look, “we’ll help you find her.”

Naatha nod after a moment. “I think you will, Fulcrum. My granddaughter, from what I can tell, thinks the world of you and the others. You’ve already helped my world in so many ways. Not just in our freedom from the invasion, but our liberties in finding this supply of the mineral.” She looks at Danalaan. “I think that our Zoetarch’s wayward one is owed a bit of thanks as well.”

The holo fades. Dani rises from her seat, then beckons to Danalaan. “Let’s go. You can tell me more about this mineral and the Torinsdattir.”

Ahsoka watches with amusement as the young woman trails behind her fellow Link—her sister-of-the-heart. She can feel the admiration coming off of the young woman through her resonance. She smiles at the accompanying awestruck expression in Danalaan’s eyes. 

Her smile fades as the ships jump away. Her mind and heart go elsewhere; they move to the bridge of an Imperial Star Destroyer and two more of her loved ones.

Still in harm’s way.


	16. Epilogue: Found Songs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next moves, for all concerned.

Dorith Panteer, newly appointed Imperial Moff of the Fondor sector, finishes pouring the cup of tea. A moment later, he has finished with the ritual of preparing it to the watcher’s satisfaction. 

Noar Zan Arbor nods, then lifts the cup and takes a sip. She sets it down, then stares at Panteer. She knows that she has the reputation for a slightly unstable look in her eyes. She uses that to her full advantage.

Panteer doesn’t seem to be moved, as he stares back at her with his own sharp blue eyes. 

“So, Doctor,” Panteer starts, breaking the staring contest, “did you get what you need from the Azdriel sector?” His eyes betray nothing, merely show curiosity. 

“You know that I didn’t, Moff,” Zan Arbor replies. “Your pet Star Destroyer Captain made sure of that.”

Panteer takes his own sip, then smiles wryly. “Not exactly a pet. Phyllida Enolo and her psychopathic buckethead are no one’s pets. She’s probably looking to see how she can twist the knife in both of us, so that she can cover up her illegal activities, as well as her ship’s performance in this circus.”

Noar nods. “Have we figured out where those dreadnoughts came from?” she asks. 

“Not really. There’s a legend of a missing Separatist fleet out there somewhere. Another criminal named Krell was looking for them a year or so ago. He met an untimely death at the hands of the Corellians and the Empire.” His expression darkens. “Plus, the _Resurgent_ was too damaged to do any sort of analysis. Or at least that’s what she tells me.”

“So do you think she’s trying to play her own game?” 

“I don’t doubt it,” the Moff replies. 

They each take a sip of their tea, their thoughts their own. 

“I’m moving my focus away from Project Starsweep. Without that mineral—I can’t even find the notes from my mother’s research as to where she and Nath found it—the Interdictor cruiser project will be a bit inactive for awhile. That may add a decade or so to the project.”

“So what will you focus on?” Panteer asks.

“I’m going back to my roots. I’m focusing on the genetic modifications of the Deathtrooper series. I think I can improve their ruthlessness and efficiency, even without the clone tissue, and the Togruta template tissue.” She shakes her head. “Enough about the past and the future. So what are we going to do about our claims for Ardalen Nath? I have no problem taking her apart to find out her engineering secrets. But I gather you have a more personal claim on her.”

Panteer nods. “Yes, Deputy Director. Director Krennic, when he could be spared from his project, has outlined your case. However, I don’t answer to Krennic or you.” He points to her rank plaque. “I have another set of tiles on mine. The Emperor has agreed to my claim.”

“I’m surprised at that, seeing he doesn’t care about personal issues,” Noar says. 

Panteer smiles tightly. “It’s not just personal. She is the key to finding something that could bring Alderaan to its knees by replacing their Queen. My family is of the blood royal, as well. The Emperor has his suspicions about the Organa-Antilles faction.”

“So what is your proposal?” Noar asks. 

“Ardalen is in the hands of the Hutts. Ming Lardai has agreed to keep her safe, in return for some concessions on this world—especially if we’re able to Imperialize the yards. There’s a connection to Ardalen there, that may be out in the open now. I protected Ardalen when her husband was murdered in a dynastic struggle. I concealed that she had lived from both sides. Her daughter is now the YardMistress of one of the most powerful concerns here.”

Noar listens, fascinated in spite of herself. She feels a twinge of interest—of what this revelation could mean to her. She stifles it, putting it at the back of her mind, for later. “So you managed to breed an heir off of her. While you were ‘protecting’ her.”

“Her feelings grew for me,” Panteer replies, “but she managed to conceal where my rightful heir was from me, after her birth.”

“Her? I’d’ve thought you’d be after a son,” Noar says. 

“You don’t know Alderaan. Right now the power rests with the female. If I can get control of the throne, I’ll change that.”

Noar absorbs this, unsure of how she feels about his machinations. “So what is Jabba’s minion doing?” she asks, masking her distaste. 

“She’ll keep her safe on Kessel. Under the control of the Pykes that she has an agreement with. Ardalen may learn some humility there. I think I might need to keep her concealed as other parties are showing interest in her. She is, after all, a daughter of Corellia, even if she wasn’t born there.” His anger flashes in his eyes. “They’re a possessive lot.”

Noar nods. She takes a deep breath. “I have some information for you. Something I’ve discovered in an investigation on Mandalore. I’ll share it, in return for whatever information you can glean from Nath.”

She can see the servos turning. After a moment, he nods. 

“Go on,” he says. 

“Your daughter is on Mandalore. She’s a ward of Clan Saxon—the major Imperial clan there. She’s in her second year at the Imperial Academy there.”

He remains silent, so she continues. “We have to be careful. Saxon is proud and they’re what’s keeping Mandalore from being too restive and rebellious. We’ll have to move slowly.”

Panteer inhales sharply. “She’s about fifteen. I don’t know what her name is.” 

Noar is surprised at the plaintive tone of his voice. She ignores it for the moment. “I don’t think Ardalen sent her to the Saxons. There’s evidence that they wound up with her somehow. I’m looking into that.”

He stands up. “Get me as much information as you can,” he says. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

She smiles. “I don’t work for you, Dorith, dear. But I’ll consider it.”

He pushes a button on the desk. A door slides open. A young woman, clad in the black uniform of an Imperial fleet trooper officer walks in. Her guarded amber eyes lock on Noar’s. Noar is struck by the pain evident—the pain of a hard life, in spite of her youth. The pain disappears, replaced by a hard look of purpose.

“This is Ensign Edan Kozume, late of the Star Destroyer _Resurgent_. She’s only one step away from a death sentence being carried out. She’s my new aide and she doesn’t have anywhere to go or anything to lose. She is a trained commando, but she needs a bit of a killer edge.” He holds up a device. “I’m going to give her that killer instinct. If you cross me, you’ll get a visit from the Ensign.”

Noar stares at both of them with anger, but calms. She smiles. “I’m pleased to meet you Ensign. I’d love to explore what makes you tick.” She shifts her gaze back to Panteer. “I’ll be in touch. I think that we can work well together, without the threats.”

She turns and leaves. Before she exits the room, she turns and smiles.

“Your daughter’s name is Melis. Melis Saxon. Maybe it will be Panteer again.”

She smiles as she sees the look in Dorith Panteer’s eyes as she turns away.

* * *

_Opportunity_ rests against the _Draq’stone_ and the _Moonshadow_ , as all three ships link their hyperdrives, to repair and retune all of their ills. Lassa watches through narrowed eyes as Gral Kruvure oversees the engine room repairs on her ship, until she can find the rest of her loyal crew. 

She smiles as she thinks of those—the ones that she refers to her family. The remainder of the crew, the crew that had voted her off at Loganer’s cajoling would be given a choice—rejoin the crew and serve the _Opportunity_ or be put off at some distant port, a tiny bit of money in their pockets. 

“So that’s how you do it, my dear,” Hondo Ohnaka says. “You always talk about how you could be voted out at any time, but in reality you surround yourself with loyal people.”

She shakes her head. “No, Hondo. I try to serve my crew. My family. My problem was that I found the family members ready to leave home. They were being replaced by whatever I could find to fill a spot. They weren’t what I had.”

Hondo nods. “Maybe I could’ve learned a few things from you, Lassa,” he says, his voice missing its usual light inflection.

“I’ve had to learn it the hard way, Hondo,” Lassa replies. “I’ll probably have a much smaller crew, but they’ll be family. We’ll make it.”

Naathanan Beten’ii walks up and smiles. She gives Lassa a quick, but enthusiastic kiss, then reaches over and gives Hondo an enthusiastic one as well. Lassa gives a look of mock disgust. “Glad you kissed me first,” she says as Hondo’s eyes focus again.

 _Mostly mock_ , she thinks to herself. She smiles as Danalaan Torstan walks up. “I think I owe you a lot, Danalaan. I know that you were working your own angle, but I appreciate the care you gave me.”

The young woman smiles, her green eyes sparkling a bit. “You can call me Daani,” she says. 

Lassa rolls her eyes at the diminutive. “I’ll never admit this, especially to the original owner of that, but you could do worse. I’m glad that you’ve found it, love,” Lassa says. “What are you gonna do?”

“Well, I’m going to make nice with my parents. The fact that I’ve found a millenia long supply to keep the Torinsdattir going might soften their anger.”

Naatha shakes her head. “I think they’ll be more glad to see their daughter home and safe, as well as having found a path,” she says. 

Daani shakes her head. “Not sure about that. I’m not sure if I can continue to be limited to my world.”

Hondo smiles. “Star-lust?”

“I think so. I’ll go to the wedding, but after that, I don’t know.” She looks at Lassa. “Especially after what we discovered about Chihdo.”

Lassa nods, her eyes hard. “I’m throwing Rik and Chihdo off, once we reach Zeltros,” she says evenly.

Naatha is silent for a moment. “I know. I bear some responsibility for that. Chihdo was playing all sides. He was working stuff off for Jabba, while serving the Seps and me. He was useful to me in the original caper, but he let slip to Ming Lardai about Ardalen.” She gives a hopeful smile. “Once we get to Zeltros, I’ll give them the _Moonshadow._ I think that once he’s free of everything, Chihdo could be a good partner for Rik.”

She touches Danalaan’s cheek. “I’ll leave it up to you as to what you want to do. You’re an adult. In fact, you may be the adult supervision with those two ingrates.”

They all start as Hondo brings the palms of his hands together. “Enough of this talk. Get me to this wedding. Since I saved Captain Rhayme’s overrated ass, and might I add, the day, I get to give the bride away at the heart-bonding!”

Lassa catches Daani’s eyeroll. The young woman looks thoughtful for a moment, on the completion of the roll. “I think we can work with that. As the younger daughter, I’m important to the ceremony. I get a wish for it, which I haven’t given yet.” She grins deviously. “This just might piss them off enough.”

Lassa and Naatha laugh. After a moment Hondo joins them. 

Sorentin Rhayme walks into the compartment. He sees Lassa standing there, puts down the equipment that he’s carrying, then turns around to exit hastily. 

Naatha looks at Lassa. “You need to let go of your anger, beautiful girl. It doesn’t serve you well. With your father, or my granddaughter.”

Lassa turns away for a moment, as Naatha continues, “He took the original job in the war after I outlined what the other part was—the part about conspiring with Mal to get you named Captain. He could care less about Zeltros or the war. But he was all in when I told him about you, and about Ardalen. He cared about our loved ones. So much so, that he agreed to put aside his differences with Gral to do this.” 

Lassa remains silent, but she looks at the two behemoths with fresh eyes as they help repair her ship. She nods briefly, then turns away from them both. 

“We’ll be at Zeltros in another fifteen hours. Hopefully, we’ll have heard from Covenant and Nola by then,” Lassa says. 

“I know,” Naatha says. “I’m anxious to meet the other two Links. I’ve met three of them,” she says pointedly, looking at Lassa. 

Lassa grins. “Not yet. We have to see whether your grand-brat and I can keep from killing each other.”

Naatha laughs. “Maybe absence will make the heart grow fonder among the Links of the Covenant Chain.”

“I have to make a stop, first, dears,” Lassa says to Naatha and Daani. “If you want to board the _Draq’stone_ , that’s fine. I have to get my crew and get the threats from my engineer about what I’ve done to her ship out of the way.”

“Yeah,” Naatha replies. “The perils of having a Wookiee ChEng, especially one that’s attached to her ship.

Their laughter follows them behind them as the three women join arms and walk out. Hondo watches them as they move towards the Captain’s cabin for some well-deserved rest. 

Or something, knowing the two Zeltrons and their natures. 

He wonders if he should tell them about the credits that he had claimed from Loganer’s account before he had gone to get Lassa.

 _It’s probably best for everyone that I don’_ t, he thinks.

_Especially for Hondo._

* * *

Nola stands next to Bryne on the hangar deck of the Star Destroyer _Resurgent_. Fortunately, they aren’t standing with their hands bound to a cable from the overhead, facing a squad of stormtroopers or fleet troopers. 

_Probably not through a lack of trying, though_ , she thinks. She looks down at Covenant; they’re both clad in civilian clothes, instead of the Imperial uniforms they had been wearing for the last several days. 

She can see that Bryne’s mind is on a distant place; he has that look on his face that shows he is thinking of one that they both love and miss. She shifts her gaze to the stars beyond the hangar. As usual in the last few days, she thinks of her friendship, or whatever the hell it is with Rae Sloane. Her mind flows to the heat of the reactor room, as she helped Rae bring the reactors on line. 

Nola grins. _If you can call handing her whatever tool it was that Rae demanded, helping_. Of course, she’d been able to recognize most of the tools that the Imperial had asked for. Her experience as Polden Vorserrie’s daughter and his endless tinkering on weekends had prepared her for that.

At least Sloane had cursed a lot less than her father had when repairing things. _There was almost as much jury-rigging and gimmickry involved, though_ , she thinks. 

She comes back to the present as she realizes that Bryne is looking at her. “You okay, No-no?” he asks. 

She nods and lets her grin fade to a soft smile. “Yeah, Bryne,” she replies, “just thinking about possibilities.”

“Rae?” he asks. 

_Damned ex-Jedi_ , flits through her mind before she answers. “Yeah. Don’t know if I’ll be able to keep up the friendship.” She looks away, back at the stars. “Or the benefits.”

She realizes that Bryne had spoken those words in stereo with her. She shoves him a little bit, only making that damned crooked grin widen. 

“I think I may’ve failed Bail and Breha,” she whispers. She reaches into her pocket and makes sure that the conversation-masker is activated. She sees his brows knit in curiosity. “I was supposed to kind of work her. To see what I could get. I’m pretty sure that Enolo told her to work me, as well. Gods know, she and Bouva tried as well, the last time I was visiting on the _Resurgent_.”

He grins. “They did a little bit of ‘working’ of me, too,” he says. 

“So how did that go for you?” she asks with her own snark. 

“Not bad. I held my own. They were both exhausted at the end of it,” he says. 

Their laughter rises, before she fades back into her thoughts. He lifts her chin, bringing her eyes back to his, even with their different heights. “Hey,” he says. “Don’t beat yourself up, Nola. You have to live.” He reaches over, glancing around at the activity. She feels his lips brush against hers. “You haven’t failed Bail and Breha. I’m sure, even without knowing what was said, that they told you to take care of yourself.”

She nods, breaking away from him as she glances over her shoulder. He turns and sees what she had seen. 

Rae Sloane stands there. 

Nola sees him put on his best charming grin. She wonders if that was what had worked on Rae’s older sister, Jana. 

Rae rolls her eyes at him. “Turn it down, bud. While you’re pretty, I’m not sure how I feel, knowing where you’ve been.”

She walks over to them both. After a moment, Rae hugs Nola to her. 

“Covenant,” comes a sharp voice. He turns and stares at the owner of the voice. Phyllida Enolo and Pem Bouva stand at the entrance. She realizes that a large representation of the crew is assembling behind them. _It can’t be for us. They’re probably glad to see us leave. Plus we’re wearing our shirts and our hands aren’t bound, so they’re not going to shoot us_ , she thinks darkly. 

Bryne glances at them with a smirk, then turns and walks towards the pair. Nola and Rae watch as both women start to speak to him in low voices. 

Rae lifts her hand and touches Nola’s cheek. Nola mirrors the gesture on Rae’s. “I wish things could’ve been different, Nola,” she says. 

Nola raises her left eyebrow. “Is this goodbye for good?”

“It might be. As much as I enjoyed the laughs,” she stops and gives Nola a hooded look, “and you didn’t bore me with the ‘benefits’ when we let ourselves give in, I think I need to move on.”

Nola listens, fighting to keep her expression even. 

“I’m a loyal subject of the Empire. I realize that the Empire has warts, but I can’t give in to the chaos that you and your friends seem to bring—even though you seem to be dedicated to helping others.” She looks down, fighting her emotions. “The chaos of the Republic cost me my older sister. I think that your Covenant might’ve known her. I see his expression when she’s mentioned.” Nola’s eyes widen, but there is no call for both of them to be seized. “She had that way about her. She affected people, even if they only met her briefly. She taught me so much in the brief time that she was responsible for taking care of me, when our parents were working.”

Nola holds her breath as Rae gathers herself. “The Empire also saved my world—from the scourge of the Kotaska criminals. They almost kidnapped me, when I was young and stupid—when I tried to run away.”

Nola nods. “I’d heard of them, from some people I know on your world—in the ruling Pryde.”

Rae smiles. “The Conyl-Pryde. They were trying to make things better, but they got no help from the Republic.”

Nola says nothing. Enolo, Bouva, and Covenant start to walk towards them. Rae notices and says, “I’m starting fresh. I asked for and received a transfer. It turns out that Grand Moff Tarkin asked for me personally to be the senior navigator on his flagship, the _Executrix_ , even before I requested.” She looks down, shyly. “I’m being promoted to full Commander. Might even get some command time again on any light cruisers, as well as work my way up to XO.”

Nola forces a smile at the mention of Tarkin—late night conversations with Ahsoka had convinced her of the Grand Moff’s evil—but says, “I thought you already were, Rae.”

“I was only a brevet. Been that a lot in the last couple of years. Acting in jobs above my grade. They must see something in me.”

Nola nods. “Is this a total cutoff?” she asks. 

“Who knows? I’m not averse to exchanging letters when we can. We might see each other again. I just know that with a fresh start, I’m not bound by anything that Enolo instructed me.”

Nola doesn’t ask, knowing what the answer would be. 

Covenant looks at her as he walks up, concern evident in his green eyes. The two officers form into a line with Rae, facing the stars. 

“It’s time, Rae,” Enolo says quietly, gesturing with her left arm in its bacta splint and sling. 

A bosun’s pipe comes over the loudspeaker. “Stand by to render honors,” Enolo’s amplified voice says. 

The crew snaps to attention. Nola glances at Covenant, taking her cue from his stance, as well as her brief training. Her fingers curl as best they can along the seams of her trousers; her feet split at a forty-five degree angle. 

“Attention. Present arms,” Bouva says, her voice now amplified. Her hand snaps to the brim of her service cap. Nola brings her hand to her heart. She notices that Covenant has eschewed protocol and the usual civilian salute. 

His fingers touch his brow in a perfect hand salute. 

“Rear-Admiral Jana Sloane. Gone before her time, saving Emperor Palpatine, just before his ascension, at the Battle of Coruscant,” Enolo says. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees tears forming in both Rae’s and Bryne’s eyes. 

“She would’ve been a model Imperial officer,” Enolo finishes. 

Neither Bryne Covenant or Nola Vorserrie would be sure of that fact. Bryne had told her of Jana’s compassion and love for life and for people—especially her crew and the clones on her ship. 

He had also told her of Jana’s love for her little sister. 

Nola wonders if Rae doubts Enolo’s statement. 

Later, in a cabin on a Corellian ship—one named for Bryne’s father—they both sit on a couch holding each other, as they both give in to to their pain. 

One for a loss that can’t be regained; the other for the probable loss of a friendship, whenever the galactic conflict is no longer cold.

**One week later**

**A very long week.**

**Or short, depending on your feelings about semi-public orgies.**

**Let’s just call it dancing.**

Ahsoka lies back, allowing her breathing to calm as Bryne Covenant stares into her eyes, just before rolling onto his back. Without hesitation, she rolls over into the crook of his arm. 

As if she was born there. 

Lassa grins as she rests beside them. She slaps the unknown Zeltron couple on their asses. They smile as they lift what appears to be the standard garb for the private celebration of a heart-bonding on the Land of Song. 

Which is to say, not much more than a hip wrap or a long skirt that only covers the front. 

It isn’t considered bad form to eschew any clothing at all in the dim light of the bonding-Temple. 

Ahsoka sighs contentedly. They were in the third and final day-and-night of the private celebration—one of close friends and family. The Prelude—the public, more openly spiritual ceremony, had taken place on the eve of the main celebration.

Ahsoka grins as she remembers the Prelude. The ceremony in which thankfully, formal wear of any homeworld would’ve worked. Hondo Ohnaka, had managed to clean his everyday wear, as he played the role of the Committer—the one that gave Alyysina Faygan’ii to her heart-bonds and them to her. He had played his role to perfection, with unaccustomed gravity and seriousness. 

He had received kisses from the new heart-bonds at the end of the Prelude—longer ones from Kanyly and Sina; Naathanan Beten’ii had given him a lengthy kiss at the end as well. A kiss of familiarity. Ahsoka had felt Bryne shaking his head in the seat next to her. 

Dani Faygan, the Rector of the Ceremony, the one charged with making all aspects of the bonding goes smoothly, had given them both a sharp look. A sharp look had also been reserved for her mother, the Chalice of Omri, as she had swayed next to the Officiant. A swaying that was the result of the previous night’s rehearsal dinner. Ahsoka grimaces as she remembers her own suffering the next day and evening. 

She would remember next time not to escalate a drinking contest with Dani’s mother. 

Hondo had moved away at the end of the Prelude, with En Sohlwey on his arm. They would re-connect—En would hold his interest, not having interest in any of the other celebrations. 

She was, as she had told Ahsoka at the rehearsal dinner, a simple woman with simple tastes. Mainly Weequay. 

Lassa reaches over and kisses her, bringing her out of her reverie. Ahsoka smiles at the pirate. “So everything’s okay with the crew?”

Lassa nods. “I think so. With the ones that left with the voteout, plus a few that saw the error of their ways, I think I might have only a handful or three less than what I had before it.”

“So how do you think this incarnation will go?” Bryne asks. Lassa reaches down and bites his shoulder, eliciting a yelp as Ahsoka makes the same move on the other side. 

“About like that,” Lassa observes. Her expression grows serious as she kisses where she had bitten. “I think it’ll be alright. A bit more and I think we might be amenable to working more closely with you, Quartermaster. Of course if you have a job that might be something we can profit in, then we’ll be glad to help.”

Ahsoka nods. “How about sticking your thumb in Jabba’s eye? Maybe in a way either another Hutt gets blamed, or the Imperials do.”

“Ardalen?” Lassa asks. “I think I might throw that one in for free.”

“What is Naatha to you?” Bryne asks. Ahsoka busies herself nibbling on Bryne’s chest, as well as Lassa’s forearm where it rests there. 

Lassa takes a deep breath. “She founded the Blood Bone Order. She’d left Dani’s mother and her other bonds. She felt a lot of wanderlust. She brought my predecessor and mentor up, then she helped him bring me up with a little bit of a caper—both involving pushing the crew to vote them out.”

“So she helped you manage your own voteout? To get rid of the flotsam?” Ahsoka says. She reaches over and kisses Lassa, then Bryne.

Lassa grins as Ahsoka’s lips return against hers. “Even the jetsam, as well.”

Ahsoka looks down at at Bryne. “Not sure how I feel about her abandoning her family for that wanderlust.”

“I know,” Lassa replies. “I think that she’s taking some time to get to know Alyys and Dani, during the celebrations. I think Alyys might be willing to forgive, since Naatha did so much for her world, either as a philanthropist after being a pirate, or as a kind of intelligence service for the Land.”

Bryne grins. “She also, from what I understand, wholly accepted Draq’, when others didn’t. I think they were peas of a pod,” he says. 

“Didn’t this whole thing start on a bet between them?”

“Yep. I think that Naatha will be collecting, as soon she can pry Draq’ away from Alyys,” he replies. 

Ahsoka smile softly. “I think Draq’s already left for Corellia. Naatha exacted the bet from him, from what Dani told me. Of course, he was probably fleeing the Zeltron tradition of the mother giving a prospective in-law a test ride.”

Their laughter rises as they share a vision of Draq’ Bel Iblis, the Dragon of Corellia, running headlong for his ship.

There is a brief _ahem_ as a figure walks into their space. Meglann Florlin stands watching them. All three of them breathe in as she places her right hand on her hip, cocked out as she gazes at them. 

The oversized blaster has been left elsewhere, as Meglann has chosen to go without any of the clothing for the celebrations. Ahsoka feels her eyes prickle with pride, once again—the pride suppressing the fear. The pride in Meglann’s newfound confidence. 

In almost everything that she does. 

Bryne looks at her, matching her look. “She never had a problem with confidence in this, Runt,” he says, a smirk splitting his face. “At least she ain’t found a way to pin the rank plaque on.”

Meglann rolls her eyes. “You’re one to talk, bud. I got someone who needs to talk to a couple of adults. Mainly Ahsoka.” She looks at Lassa. “Although Rhayme will do in a pinch.”

She dodges someone’s article of clothing, then holds her hand out to Bryne. “Kinda wanted to see if the Covenant can dance. I want to try some of the actual dance circles.”

He reaches over and gives both of his companions a kiss, then rises. Meglann smiles at them, then takes his hand. 

Both Lassa and Ahsoka watch their retreating figures. Their eyes grow more serious as Yelena Dao walks in, her arm through Nola’s. 

Both young women are fully clothed as they come in and sit next to Lassa and Ahsoka. They do take time to kiss both women. 

“So Meglann told you, Yelena?” Ahsoka asks. 

The young woman looks away, then nods. “Yes. I’m glad you had her come find me and tell me. I think she’s had some experience in gutpunches about parents. So has Dani.”

“So what are you going to do?” Lassa asks. She reaches over and gives Nola a quick kiss. 

“Nola and I are taking a ship to find Shyla. Tamsin’s taking us. We’re going to see what we can do to get Ardalen—my mother—out of that.”

“You think you can persuade her, No-no?” Ahsoka asks. 

“I think so, Tano. After all, it looks like I may be her minder for awhile.” Nola replies.

“You’ll be careful?” Ahsoka asks. “Both of you? I know what Panteer tried to do to you. Especially this last time.”

Nola looks at Yelena. “We’ll look out for one another. She’s already saved my ass one time. I at least can return the favor.” She gives them a hooded look. “I did get a downpayment going for her at the celebrations.”

Yelena looks at her. “You sure you’re okay going? You were pretty sad that you and Fulcrum here weren’t going to get a ‘full wrestling match’ in, as you whined about it.”

Nola grins. “We got a little ‘stick’ time in,” she says with a smirk, “I think she can wait for my full awesomeness.”

As they walk out of the room, Ahsoka looks at both of them fondly. She focuses on Lassa. 

“Might be time for some peacemaking,” she says. She pulls close to Lassa, lying on top of her, pushing her back down.

“Oh, no, Tano,” she says. “I don’t want to be anywhere near that Faygan twit. I wanna keep you all to myself.” She shoves Ahsoka off of her, then jumps to her feet. “Come on. Let’s go dance.”

“I have to go do something, first,” she says, standing easily, then crooks her finger at Lassa. 

“I’d follow that ass anywhere,” Lassa retorts. 

_You might soon be following another ass_ <, Ahsoka thinks. As they navigate through the bodies on the floor, Ahsoka hopes that what Naatha had told her about the interlocution will help her to get it right. She needs all of her allies and friends. 

She sees Meglann and Bryne laughing with others in the dance circle, including the new bonds. Bryne reaches over and kisses Meglann, then is kissed by Boman Torstan’ii.

Ahsoka smiles at her objective. Dani sits with her mother and her grandmother. She smiles as she sees Ahsoka, then grits her teeth as she sees Lassa.

Alyysina and Naathanan push her to her feet. As Ahsoka pulls Lassa to her, she hears Dani say something to her family.“I’ll be right back. This shouldn’t take long.”

Lassa steams, but follows her Quartermaster.

**The Morning After**

A new family—at least one officially new—holds each other in the streets of the Capitoline. The head of the family, who also leads this world, breaks free and looks at his youngest daughter. 

“Danalaan,” Boman whispers, allowing his lips to play over her dark hair. “My Daani. My beloved.”

“Abeeyah,” she replies. She shifts her gaze to the one who bore her. “Abeeyeh.” She kisses her mother, reaching over from her father’s arms. She breaks free of them both and faces the new addition.

She bows formally, but is drawn into Alyysina Faygan’ii na Torstan’ii’s strong arms. Sina draws her hands through Daani’s hair. 

“Abeeyeh’aa,” Daani says, the syllables perfect.

“My love,” Sina replies, “my daughter of my heart and my loves’ hearts.”

Boman’s smile grows. “We’re so proud of you, Danalaan. Proud that you found your path, as well as helped save the liberties of your world.”

Daani smiles. “There are others who were part of that—probably a bigger part than me.”

“I guess that we could say something about being corrupted by scoundrels. But one of them is our new bond’s great aunt. As well as the grandmother of your diminutive-sake.”

Kanyly smiles. “So where is Naatha? Reconnecting with Alyys?”she asks. 

“Yeah,” Daani replies. “That and trying to find a way to spend the bet she won from the Dragon. Ten credits doesn’t go very far.”

Their laughter rises together as they pull each other closer again. They all sober. “We owe her a lot,” Sina says.

Daani smiles again. “I know. She helped me find my path.” She looks down and takes a deep breath. “I just don’t think it’s here,” she whispers. She sees her parents and the new bond look at one another.

“Your position as Keeper of the Torinsdattir is there if you want it, my love,” Boman says. 

“I know, abeeyah,” she replies. “But I’ve returned the Song’s Knot to the Chalice of Omri. She’ll keep it safe. She’ll keep our democracy safe, as long as we can keep the Land free.”

She lifts a bag from a server droid. She hugs them each in turn, ending with her father. 

As she walks the streets to the spaceport, she hears cursing from behind her. She raises the credit chip she had lifted from her father’s jacket. 

_Just to keep her hand in_ , she thinks, as the cursing turns to laughter in three-part harmony. 

Danalaan continues to walk past the passenger terminal, moving into the private docking bays. 

She smiles and stops at one in particular. She gazes at the mismatched ship that rests there. Her eyebrows raise at the new paintjob, at least on the name. 

_Moonshadow._

Daani walks over and enters the ramp. She moves to where she hears voices. She smiles softly at the familiarity.

Rik Duel turns from the pilot’s console and allows an easy grin to move over his handsome features. He rises and walks over to her, giving her his hands. She reaches up and kisses him. 

He’s more receptive than he had been, returning her kiss, allowing his tongue in her mouth. The greeting holds promise.

She turns to the other figure. Daani feels her eyebrows rise in surprise. Chihdo stands there, his antenna repaired, a transmitter most likely back in place in the prosthetic.

Rik nods at her surprise. “I can keep an eye on him. Might be useful to have a connection with Jabba. Might have a job lined up from that Naboo woman that’s a friend of some of your friends.” He looks behind Daani. “First thing, though, we’ve got to take this old bastard and his buddy to back some people up on Nar Shaddaa.”

She turns and lets her eyes narrow. Her smile returns at one figure. 

Sorentin Rhayme and Gral Kruvure stand there, both of them glowering. Daani walks over to Face, the young Twi’lek woman. She falls into the embrace with her partner-in-chaos.

She looks around at the ship’s crew and passengers. Her gaze stops on Chihdo, the Rodian. 

He nods at her.

“You can count on me, Daani,” he says quietly in his otherworldly Basic.

* * *

Ardalen Nath squeezes her eyes shut, then opens them. Her vision—completely absent for the last several hours seems to be clearing. She has managed not to throw up during that time, although that may be tested with what her eyes fall on. 

She realizes that she lies on the floor of a stone lined room. She can feel the heat on her face from the door. A particular scent—one that she has only smelt in its refined form, cuts through her nostrils. 

“Did you enjoy your stint in carbonite?” asks a voice with an odd inflection. “The carbon sickness will wear out. Then we’ll be able find you a suitable occupation, unless our patrons find the need to strip you of everything you know.”

Ardalen stares at the tall individual, a mask over a very small face. She curses under her breath. 

The Pyke stares down at her; she realizes that she’s clad only in a tank top and her underwear. “Perhaps you can entertain some of our guards. I hear you’re a passable dancer, in addition to your usefulness to the mighty Jabba as an engineer and your usefulness to Moff Panteer as a brood mare.”

There is a burst of noise and light in the doorway, as well as more outside. The Pyke falls, his head split in two.

Ardalen’s spotty vision stares at empty space. She tracks downward, wondering if the carbon sickness is affecting her mind. 

She stares at the small being in the door. He bears human-like features, but in green, with reptilian additions, including a high crest over his skull. Graying brown hair lies over the crest, but is pulled into a topknot. He is dressed in an expensive suit.

“You’re now a guest of Prince Xizor,” he says. “We’ll take you to our enclave here. You’ll be safe and taken care of. A true guest, not a prisoner, until my Prince can arrange passage away from here.”

“Where is here?” she asks, surprised by how rusty her voice is. She knows the answer, but asks anyway. 

“Kessel,” he says simply. He looks at the other Falleen, who move outward, ever watchful to what is outside.

“I’m actually here from your family, my dear,” he says, his gray eyes sincere. “We’re both playing a dangerous game.”

She smiles slightly. “Alright. Which of my family?”

“I represent my father’s world.” He reaches over and lifts her hand, raising it to his lips in a courtly gesture. 

Her heart soars at his next words. 

“The Five Brothers will care for their prodigal daughter.”

She suddenly feels as if she will see the world again that she was raised on, with its gamblers, explorers, and engineers. Something that had been in doubt, that she would ever see anything again except this cell.

_Corellia._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sonnet 116 - William Shakespeare**
> 
> Let me not to the marriage of true minds  
> Admit impediments. Love is not love  
> Which alters when it alteration finds,  
> Or bends with the remover to remove.  
> O no! it is an ever-fixed mark  
> That looks on tempests and is never shaken;  
> It is the star to every wand'ring bark,  
> Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.  
> Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks  
> Within his bending sickle's compass come;  
> Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,  
> But bears it out even to the edge of doom.  
> If this be error and upon me prov'd,  
> I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.


End file.
